Shadow Of The Bat: Best Served Cold
by killakenny
Summary: Best Served Cold is a short story that pits a seasoned Batman against two of his well-known rogues re-envisioned in a gritty and violent first encounter. The Dark Knight gets sucked into a whirlwind of mayhem when Gotham City's most notorious drug lord, Poison Ivy, seeks to reclaim the streets after a tenure in prison. Can Batman stop Ivy's and her Ally's struggle for power?
1. Chapter 1: The Docklands

SHADOW OF THE BAT: Best Served Cold

The Dark Knight gets sucked into a whirlwind of mayhem when Gotham City's most notorious drug lord, Poison Ivy, seeks to reclaim the streets after a tenure in prison. But, as Batman uncovers the clues necessary to crack open Ivy's plan, he finds that she's not working alone. Poison Ivy has found a most unexpected ally to aid her in an ambitious bid to rid the city of the Caped Crusader for good. Batman, however, is no easy prey and is just as capable of mayhem.

Best Served Cold is a short story that pits a seasoned, veteran Batman against two of his well-known rogues re-envisioned in a gritty and violent first encounter. Strap on your capes and pull on your cowls, it's going to be a cold one.

By Killa Kenny

Disclaimer:

I do not own Batman. DC Comics and Bob Kane do. I'm just a huge fan that grew up in the shadow of the bat that wants to expand the mythos.

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/GOTHAM GAZETTE/

REPUTED DRUG LORD, POISON IVY, RELEASED FROM PRISON!

KNIGHTLY―Reputed drug queen pin and leader of the Bowery's Bloodroot Gang, Pamela Isley, more readily known by her alias Poison Ivy, was released from Black Gate prison today on the grounds of insufficient evidence to a grandiose welcoming party of media officials and reporters.

Isley was indicted on charges of narcotics trafficking, conspiracy, and murder-for-hire. The prosecution was unable to make the narcotics and murder charges stick due to lack of evidence but managed to hook Isley for conspiracy and sentenced her to fifteen years in Black Gate prison. Keeping an otherwise low-profile in prison, Isley served eighteen months of her fifteen year tenure before her sentence was overturned.

Isley's lawyer, Tim Roth, claimed, "Miss Isley had been innocent the whole time. The judiciary was poised to make an example of her by forcing her to take the fall for crimes she didn't commit; crimes that an inadequate judicial system was unable to solve and needed a scapegoat. Justice has finally been served."

Presiding Judge Olivia M. Thatch and the officials in the District Attorney's office refused to comment.

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11:07 PM

I was perched on a roof some two-hundred yards to west of the Southeast Gotham Docklands, crouching in the shadow of larger building. The Southeast Gotham Docklands were nestled deep in the Eastside near the city's urban sprawl of Haysville, a rotting industrial section of downtown shaded in neglect and crime. Haysville was exceptionally dark this time of night considering that all but two street lamps were in disrepair. Street lamps weren't all that were broken Haysville, though. The people were broken, their spirit was broken, the police were broken and that was to name a few. In the wake of ruination, the Gotham criminal element found solidarity. That solidarity broke the spirit of Gotham even more. I sought to break that solidarity by breaking the criminals—one-by-one if I had to. They knew it too. Most criminals made every effort to stay beneath my notice. Realistically, I couldn't be everywhere at once—although I tried. But once in a while criminals' ego compelled him to act in such a way as to raise my suspicion. I was at that Docklands following a suspicious lead.

Up until now, I had been watching irregular movement on one of the piers through my range-finders for the past hour. Unfortunately, my _vantage point_ didn't afford a great _vantage_. The buildings and the stacked CONEX Boxes littering the docks obscured my view of the piers at large and I wanted desperately to move in closer for a better look. However, while closing the distance would have solved the vantage-problem, it also presented a far worse issue. If the suspects turned-out to be legit operators—not the dockworkers but rather a law enforcement or...God-forbid...a Federal Taskforce—my night could have ended poorly. Although I found the affiliated party suspect, they did manage to enter the port unnoticed and without force. I considered the possibility of them being legit. I didn't, however, commit to that naive train-of-thought considering that acting _unnoticed_ and _without force_ were common criminal traits in Gotham. Criminals felt that the less overt they were, the less their chances were of running afoul of the Batman.

The joke was on them.

Criminals made a huge mistake going digital. They communicated the majority of their dealings in cyberspace these days―the bad ones anyway. The good ones―and I do use the word _good_ loosely―still handled their dealings the old fashion way. As such, their activities were harder to track. This was not the case at the Dockland, these amateurs communicated via the internet. And, through persistent data-mining, I got a sniff that an obscure drug shipment was coming in tonight at one of the piers. I assumed the movement I was watching was connected.

Back to the idea of the activity being legit: Suspicious movement wasn't just reserved for criminals, federal agents loved being suspicious. For all I knew, the people moving about the pier could have been the Feds coming to fill the law enforcement vacuum left by Gotham City Police Department. If that was the case, I didn't want to haphazardly crash their operation. Feds didn't like me much; no more than they liked the local criminals. In fact, last I checked, the Feds had a _fire-on-sight_ policy regarding the Batman. Better that I had steered clear until I was sure.

Whoever they were—Fed, criminal, or otherwise—had a mid-sized delivery truck and was moving something from a freighter on pier seventeen to a refrigeration warehouse near the west gate. '_What__ they were moving_?' and '_W__ho__ they__were_?' were the questions.

I needed confirmation. My UAV was only five minutes out and could provide me that in no time. In the meantime, I kept up my surveillance.

"Batman," Oracle's voice chimed on the Bluetooth inside my cowl, "the UAV's on-station."

"Understood. I need a full visual of the eastside of the building. Open the feed so I can see it on my tablet."

By now the truck had been backed into a loading dock and the night-vision, grainy as it was due the lack of moonlight, showed no movement outside. That was promising. Now, I could get close and not have to worry about being seen by a look-out.

"Switch to Forward Looking Infrared," I commanded. The display went from shades of green to shades of grey in an instant revealing eddies of hot and cold. The engine of the truck was running and there was someone in the driver's seat—they weren't planning to stay long. I could also count several bodies moving in the space behind the truck. It was impossible to tell how many and I still hadn't identified anyone. Oracle was nevertheless one step ahead of me.

"I've got facial recognition on the guy in the driver's seat. His name is Hugh Seaborne, 28. Small time criminal record. Mostly misdemeanors. He's got an active warrant."

_Definitely_ not legit.

"Sight-matching is complete. I've found the blue-prints to the building. I'm uploading them to you now. They look to be fairly up-to-date. Give them hell, Batman."

After I reviewed the blueprints, I stowed the tablet and rose slowly; my cape thrashing violently in the cold wind. I took in the darkness, centering myself. Once I was mentally prepared, I took a deep breath and leapt from the roof into the dead-space above the vacant street. I allowed gravity to pull me down six stories before I activated the memory-cloth in my cape. With a _whoosh_, it inflated like the sail of a hang-glider and I used my momentum to glide the distance to the warehouse. I set down in a series choreographed movements that maximized aerodynamic braking to preventing myself from falling and I hurried over to a skylight.

Through it, I counted six people carrying large metal boxes in teams of two. They were using only the overhead lights to illuminate their path through the labyrinthine warehouse. Probably trying not to appear too conspicuous by lighting it up after hours. They had to be out-of-town goons, the natives _knew_ better than to work in the dark.

The lead group labored their way through the maze of CONEX Boxes with probably one hundred feet between them and the second. The third group was still offloading a box from the back of the truck.

I had to remind myself not to act on impulse. Just thinking of taking the fight to these losers started me salivating.

Quick game plan first: Since Seaborne was the driver and was isolated from the rest of the group, I'd use him as my informant. Therefore, I needed to take his buddies down first and without alarming him. That meant I needed to go in the far rooftop door and track northeast using the catwalks, rafters, and CONEX Boxes. As soon as group one turned a corner and was out of the line-of-sight of the group two, I would quickly dispatch the first. Then—and I'd have to be quick about it—I would get back up to overheads and attack the third group. After that, I'd move against the second. That would afford me the silence I'd need to keep from spooking Seaborne and, more importantly, keep me out of the line of gunfire.

I was through the door and across the overheads in no-time, waiting above a chokepoint for group-one to turn the bend heading towards one of the industrial freezers. The warehouse was easily forty degrees and the air stung my face. My armor's insulation was just enough to keep my body warm enough so as not to lose dexterity. I slowed my breathing trying to squelch the feeling of anticipation. Group one came around the corner and I readied my ambush. They stopped short of my position and with a loud clamor dropped the box, fatigued no doubt. They fussed over it and each other for a brief moment and then resumed, heaving the large container up and pressing on.

As they passed directly underneath, I deposed of my handholds and slid off the rafter, plunging toward them as fast as gravity could manage. At the last second, I opened my cape to slow my descent and I landed on the rear-most goon feet first. He squealed and crumpled under my weight. There was a wet crack; he broke something. Too bad.

The container tumbled to the ground dragging the other goon with it. I bounded over the box and was on him before he could react. I laid into his face with my armored fist, slamming his head into the concrete of the floor. He went unconscious without a fight.

The goon that I used to cushion my fall was making a gurgling sound. I peered over my shoulder to check on him. I had apparently injured him significantly but he'd live. Normally, I was courteous enough to check on them but I didn't really have time to admire my handy work right now―I was still racing the clock.

I sprinted down the nearest pathway between towering stacks of CONEX Boxes in the general direction that I estimated group three to be by now. I shot up the side of the giant containers and over the top, vaulting across the adjacent chasms until I had group three in sight. Without slowing, I leapt upon them and dispatched both goons in the same manner that I did the first two. The ruckus of the falling metal box grabbed the attention of group two and they turned to check on their comrades. I quickly pulled a bat-shaped shuriken from my utility-belt and slung it at the light overhead. The loud _pop _and the shower of sparks drew their notice whilst I settled into the shadow that had suddenly blanketed me. I crouched to obscure my silhouette against the backlighting of a distant overhead lamp. The cape was good for that.

"Yo," one called to the unconscious goons lying on either side of me, "you two awrite?"

They set their box down and approached cautiously to inspect, looking at each repeatedly for assurance. I held my position; I could see them but they couldn't see me. I waited until they got within suitable range for me strike. By the time they'd realize that I was there, it would be too late. They apparently didn't know who Batman was or at least didn't believe in me. It was time for me to live up to my _urban legend_. The citizens of Gotham feared the criminals. And, the criminals feared _me_.

They kept coming. When they were within two body lengths and they were finally able to discern my silhouette, I stood to my full height. Their faces drained of color and their muscles ceased with fear. Definitely, out-of-town thugs. Native thugs would have run for the hills the moment the light shattered. They knew better than to poke around in the darkness; the darkness in Gotham tended to _poke _back.

Like an old west gunslinger reaching for his gun, I drew my grapnel launcher from the back of my utility-belt and fired into the meat of the furthest goon's shoulder. The hook bit deep and he howled in pain. I yanked the line taut―not too much force, I didn't want tear his shoulder open. He fell forward into his partner, causing him to stumble. That gave me the few seconds I needed to close the distance.

As I rushed up to the nearest of the two, I grabbed ahold his head with both hands and drove my knee into his jaw. It crumpled under the force and I slung him to the side as I moved in on the other who whimpered at the pain of the grapnel imbedded in his shoulder. I'm sure the sight of the blood didn't help. He would live, though. Besides, he wasn't going to feel pain where I was sending him. He didn't even see me coming; he was way too preoccupied playing surgeon. I planted the hell of boot on his cheekbone and he went unconscious immediately.

Now, I had to figure out what they were doing here. Time to go have a conversation with Seaborne.

"Oracle," I keyed the Bluetooth, "confirm that Seaborne is still in the truck."

"He is Batman. It looks like he's using his cell phone."

"Jam the signal. I'm going to have a talk with him."

I squeezed between the edge of the loading dock and the truck and sidled along the bed until I reached the driver door and peered in. Seaborne leaned against the window with his back to me, waving his cell frustratingly about the cab. I was going to make quick work of this―providing he didn't do anything _stupid_.

I forced my arms through the glass, showering Seaborne with thousands of shards. He leapt out of his skin and clawed at the ceiling. I got two handfuls of his coat and dragged him from the driver's seat through the window. He kicked, screamed, and bucked.

I didn't give him any time to gather himself. As soon as his legs hit the ground, I hoisted him and slammed his back against the side of the vehicle, pressing my gauntlet into his neck. Seaborne's eyes focused and for a brief moment I thought he was going to faint when he made out my cowl and my grimace. My size alone was enough to intimidate him; I was easily three-hundred pounds in my armor and the cowl saw me stand to a rough six-and-three quarters feet compared to Seaborne's meager stature.

"Holy sh―" he began to spit out but I jarred his head with my forearm. He held on, surprisingly; didn't strike me as the hardy type.

"You're real!" His voice was throaty and labored.

Out-of-town goon, no doubt.

He pleaded for his life. I hated when they did that. I keyed the armor's voice synthesizer. My voice came out in a deep, raspy growl, "I'm going to ask you some questions. And, you're going to answer them―correctly. If you don't...you're going to look very different come next week. Nod if you understand."

He continued pleading.

I jarred his head with my forearm again and spoke a little louder, "I said: Nod if you understand."

He did.

"What's in those containers?"

"I―I don't know. We weren't told what's in 'em."

"You're lying."

"No! No, I swear I don't know! I'm just the driver!"

I guess I'd have to look for myself. I had intended to anyway.

"Where did they come from?"

"Africa, I think. At least that's where the boat came from."

Africa? That was unusual for the Gotham criminal element. With the exception of a few, they weren't known for being cosmopolitan and well-traveled. I noted that for later.

"Why are you here?"

"We were told to store this last shipment in the freezers."

_This last shipment_? That meant this wasn't the only one. Where were the others?

I was already behind the power curve in this investigation. I hated finding out that I was already behind the power curve in any capacity.

"_Who_ told you?"

Hesitation pooled in his eyes. He realized that I was making a snitch of him. And, snitches didn't survive in the Gotham underworld. I supposed he should have made better career choices. Besides, there was nothing any two-bit crime boss, worth his weight, could do that was worse than what I planned to do if Seaborne didn't spill it.

I pressed the scallops of my gauntlet into his jugular. He got the message.

"T-Don," he exhaled with resignation.

_T-Don_. As in Teeshaun 'T-Don' Donnelly. A Bloodroot Set Leader, one of Poison Ivy's lieutenants.

She had been out of jail for all of ten hours and she already had her cronies on the job. She didn't waist any time.

I released my grip on Seaborne. He rubbed his jaw and neck gingerly.

I looked in the direction of the warehouse. There were crates, freezers, and a truck to search; I had my work cut-out for me and sunrise wasn't far off. Sunrise and I didn't get along well.

"B—Batman, I―I told you everything."

I didn't look at him.

"If you let me go, I swear—"

"Anything you say can and will be used against you." I palmed his face and smashed it into the side of the truck. The back-end shuddered from the force and Seaborne's brow left a bloody smear as he went limp and slid to the ground. He'd need stitches.

"Oracle, move the UAV out of the airspace and call an ambulance in fifteen minutes. I'm going to see what's in these crates."


	2. Chapter 2: Poison Ivy

5:44 AM

It was a quarter to six in the morning and I had been sitting at the console in the cave for the better part of two hours, trying to make sense of the little information that I had gathered. After I wrapped up the events at the Southeast Dockland, I raced back to the cave in the batmobile using the time to gather my thoughts.

The evidence that I found in the containers—those dropped inside the warehouse and those still on the truck—was a bit troubling. Most of them contained industrial-grade medical supplies. I assumed it was all medical equipment and then I found a super-refrigerant and about twenty-five grams of cryopreserved flora of unknown origin. Maybe the equipment supported a mobile cryonics laboratory. But, what need did the Bloodroots have for cryonics?

Needless to say, I was not prepared nor equipped to deal with cryopreserved materials or super-refrigerants, so I managed only a small sample and left the rest for the police. I planned to run tests on the plant cells and see what kind of answers I could muster.

Just as I was roaring out of city limits, I received a message from Commissioner Gordon in a dead-end email account―one of the many _thousand_ that I rotated weekly—informing me that Ivy's chief rival Reuben Jacinto and three others were found dead in Jacinto's vehicle in the parking lot of a condemned high-rise. He also noted that in lieu of the coroner's report, the cause of death was unknown. I didn't have time to wait for the coroner. My instincts told me that Poison Ivy was going to incite a gang-war if I didn't intercede. I wasn't willing to stand around while the body count rose. So I decided to pay Jacinto and his entourage a visit in the morgue.

I remember an old adage that read: _D__ead men tell no tales_. Whoever devised that adage didn't practice in forensics. In my experience, the dead often told more than the living. Just looking at Jacinto's body told me that he had been poisoned. In fact, _everyone_ in the car had been poisoned. The crime scene investigators and the coroner could surely discern the same but refused to make official claims so early without exercising all the cumbersome bureaucratic procedures first. In the meantime, they settled with C_ause of Death: Unknown._ Commissioner Gordon, however, knew that I had no such bureaucratic entanglements and would start investigating while the homicide division was momentarily paralyzed.

In addition to tissue samples, I lifted fingerprints from all four of the bodies as well as dental data. Two of the three other bodies were Jacinto's thugs. I had seen them several times—broken one their noses about a year ago. The last body I couldn't identify but I could tell by his tattoos that he wasn't part of Jacinto's camp. I wasn't sure who he was affiliated with. That'd take some research.

Regrettably, I wasn't able to spend more than twenty minutes with the bodies. Night security had interrupted my investigation. I disappeared without incident. I left the night watchman a souvenir, however; a bat-shaped shuriken. I placed it on a table where he could spot it. The urban legend of the Batman of Gotham City had to be fostered from time-to-time.

"I'm not that easy to sneak up on, Alfred." I smelled his cologne the moment he entered the cave.

Last week he was trying to catch me off-guard by sucker-punching me. The week before, he moved things on my laboratory desk ever so slightly to see if I'd notice. This week's obsession, however, saw him trying in earnest to startle me. I'm not exactly sure where he got these ideas but he definitely found it all amusing.

"Indeed," Alfred snickered. "Well, I just wanted to see if I still had it."

I kept working, "Still had what?"

"Why my baleful stealthiness, of course," he said ruefully

"Don't get down on yourself, Alfred. I'm not a Burmese rebel; little harder to spook."

"Perish the thought of the Dark Knight taking a start from his haggard butler. Why the criminal element would feel that they had been swindled with the countless dollars spent on throwing fodder at you, when all this time they could have hired me for a fraction of the price."

"You're street name could be _the Butler_. That's seems to be the general format in this city."

"Catchy. It'll strike fear into the hearts of men I'm sure."

He stood silently for a moment while I continued taking notes and then he spoke, "I must say, Master Wayne, most gentleman have pictures of their latest love interest or a famous super model set as the background of the computer desktop. Instead, you have several photographs of a redheaded, murderous, drug dealer. I really think you should reconsider your taste in women." He was referring to the pictures of Ivy I had affixed to her electronic file; several that I had data-mined from the internet and three or four that I had pulled from the police database—mug-shots and such.

"Suppose I shouldn't ask for her hand in marriage, then."

"No, no. By all means. A reputable _pharmacist_ would do great polishing your good name and emptying your trust fund."

That was actually funny. Alfred seemed to be able to make light of any situation.

"So tell me, Master Wayne: How does a lovely, young lady like...her name escapes me...fall into such a _profound_ life of criminal enterprise?"

"Her name is Pamela Isley; she goes by the street name Poison Ivy."

"Naturally."

"Thirty-two years old. Never been married. Born in Seattle, Washington to a Clarice Isley and moved to Gotham when she was six after her mother remarried. They lived in the Bowery below 232nd street."

Alfred grimaced, "Speaking of war-zones..."

"Agreed." I hit the page-down button and continued, "There was an extensive history of drug use and of abuse—domestic and _otherwise_; which ultimately lead to Ivy being put out of the house at age eleven. She lived on the streets for a while before being taken in by a bowery pimp, by the name of Jason Woodrue, whom she became a prostitute for, under the alias _Ivy_. Of note, he apparently used highly addictive drugs to control his working girls. Pretty textbook if you ask me."

"That would depend on which textbook you were referring."

"Anyway, she did three short stints in a juvenile correction facility each time being released back to the pimp―_legally_ mind you―"

Alfred cut-in, "The Gotham City Officiate never fails to amaze."

"Tell me about it. Around age fifteen she showed up in Sacred Heart South's Intensive Care Unit. The official police report claimed that she shot herself. But I'm gathering that Woodrue shot her."

"Do tell…"

"Well…a year later he was burned to death when the tenement that he operated from burned to the ground. The police report suspected arson but no concrete evidence was ever uncovered.

"She then gets a job at a seedy club as an exotic dancer on lower 237th near Peabody Street called the Hour Glass Frame. There she developed a love affair with a local drug dealer who worked for 'Prince' Hakeem Farouq. That's where she learned the drug trade. She also did two more stints in jail, this time in Black Gate on accessory charges and contempt of court. According to the accounting documents, Farouq paid all her fees, fines, and bails. I'm sure, in return, she began working for him―if she wasn't already. Then the boyfriend turned up dead. Drug overdose. She laid low for the next couple years and started attending Gotham University majoring in..."

"Fashion?"

"Close. Pharmacology and botany."

"Ah. That old chestnut."

_That old chestnut_? I knew better than to ask. He was trying to get a rise.

"Her transcripts show that she excelled academically." I passed them to him, "even completing two degrees in three years."

Alfred looked the transcripts over, "You sound impressed."

"Criminals don't _impress_ me, Alfred. They _amaze_ me. They qualify themselves in society for the sole purpose of tearing it down. I don't understand it. Seems like a waste of time."

"Only the lion can truly understand the wherefores of the lion, Master Bruce."

I didn't know how to respond. I left it at that.

"In any case, about two years after she graduated, Farouq is rushed to the emergency room and pronounced _dead-on-arrival_. The prognosis: Poison."

"Curious."

"Thereafter, Ivy assumed control of Farouq's criminal empire. And here we are now, mired in the present."

"So it would seem." Alfred stroked his chin thoughtfully, "Admittedly, I'm a bit confused."

"About?"

"Abuse, drugs, prostitution, prison, and..._college,_" Alfred's face pruned. "An odd combination if I do say so myself."

"It makes perfect sense when you consider that everything I told you comes from official documentation. So, I'll fill in the gaps with my professional opinions."

"Now we're getting somewhere. I do hope this one is cast of riddles flavored by the jokes and duality."

"Not quite."

"Rats."

"Anyway, Ivy tried to break away from prostitution several times but found herself unequipped; as is the case with most women forced to sell their bodies. She probably made a bold move against him—"

"Him?"

"Woodrue."

"Ah."

"—and he shot her to make a point―she was trapped. Characteristic of Poison Ivy, however, she's never stays locked-up for long and she's known for being vindictive. She murdered Woodrue in retaliation for the shooting a year earlier. The boyfriend, whom she met years later, introduced her to narcotics and Farouq. Farouq saw her as a prodigious new-comer―someone he could invest in―and took her under his wing. That made the boyfriend an obstacle, likely due jealousy...so she killed him. My guess is Farouq orchestrated that. Now, the operative word here is: _invest_. Most syndicated crime networks maintain _dedicated_ legal counsel or political connections. In short, crime bosses send their _own_ to law school or orchestrate the ascension of their _own_ to some sort of political office; all for the benefit their criminal operations."

Alfred began wiping a workstation with a rag, "Indeed."

"If I were a drug lord bent on flooding the streets with a product that no else could rival, I'd have to produce a drug that no one else could duplicate. Hence, Farouq sees Ivy enrolled at Gotham University―"

"Studying in the disciplines of Botany and Pharmacology."

"Exactly. _And_, just a few short years later, Ivy realizes that she doesn't need to be working for someone she feels she is better than―"

"So, she poisons Farouq―"

"―takes over his empire, renames his gang the Bloodroots after a highly toxic plant, and calls herself Poison Ivy as credence to her most notorious murder method and as a head-nod to her _ascension_."

"I'm going to base a Broadway play on this. I'm going to title it: 'A Cape, A Cowl, A Growl, and A Scowl: A Vigilantes Tale.'

I shook my head. He was incorrigible at times.

"Would you care for coffee, sir?"

I didn't reply. A picture of Poison Ivy, taken at a boxing match, caught my attention. It pierced me at some level―the picture, that is. Not sure what about it. Maybe, I could sense the loss that was hidden behind her golden smile. She was definitely not at a loss of looks, that's for sure. She was every bit as ruthless as she was attractive. But in her face I could see that unquenchable need to fill a void. That motivated her to action. I could sympathize.

He cleared his throat, "Coffee, Master Wayne."

"No, Alfred. I'm going to get some sleep. I plan to pay Ivy a visit tonight and I need to be rested."

"Might I suggest that you use the bed this time? I think the batmobile could use some space."


	3. Chapter 3: Further Evidence

10:22 PM

The _batcomputer_―as Alfred so affectionately referred to it, more to patronize me than anything―finished testing and modeling what was salvageable of the plants after they had thawed. The cellular damage from the revival from the crypopreservation was pretty significant. I was lucky to recover the small amount that I had. I would have to do some more research into cryonics if I was to keep encountering more cryopreserved evidence.

In any case, the tests indicated that the plants were of a type called _Synadenium Veneforii_, a member of the family _Euphorbiaceae_, a native of the jungles of the Democratic Republic of the Congo, and known for being highly toxic. Apparently, the local tribes have used it as a ritual drug for generations. According to the modeling, the toxic yield of the plant would make it a formidable narcotic in the right hands―or in this case, the wrong hands. Hands like those of Poison Ivy. After all, groundbreaking, designer narcotics were her modus operandi.

Additionally, the tissue samples from Jacinto and the other three bodies showed chemical traces similar to the plants. I concluded that Ivy had managed to synthesize the plants into a potent toxin that was used to murder Jacinto and the others. How she administered the toxin was up for debate.

The cryonics, on the other hand, did not quite make sense. Ivy felt a need to freeze the plants. But why? And, where did she get the technology and know-how?

I didn't need to stress over the answers. I was planning to squeeze them from her. All I had to do was figure out where she was.

I figured T-Don would know since he was her closest confidant and the thug responsible for organizing the job at the Docklands. So I tracked him to a midtown Mexican Restaurant off of Falcon in Gainsly called Los Angeles Divinos; a spot from which he regularly conducted illicit business. I caught up with him in the kitchen. He was being anything but cooperative.

"I ain't telling you jack, Batman!"

I had a firm grasp on T-Don's dreadlocks. His face was swollen and he was bleeding from the mouth and nose. But I guess I wasn't being persuasive enough.

I drilled him in the gut with my fist. He wretched as if he was going to puke―he didn't. Then, I dragged him over to the grill and held his face inches from the burner. The kitchen staff floundered about in a frenzied panic.

"You're trying my patience!" I roared through the voice synthesizer. "I want to know where Poison Ivy is! Call her!" I ripped his cellphone from his belt and held it in front of his face.

"Screw you, Batman! You ain't gettin' nuttin' outta me!"

T-Don was digging himself a hole. I hadn't showed up with the intent to hurt him but he was starting agitate me. I never had a problem breaking a criminal's jaw just to make a point and I was moments away from making a point.

"I ain't scared o' you!"

He was lying. And, I had had enough of his stalling. I pressed his cheek against the grill. His screams drowned out the sizzling of his skin. The kitchen staff climbed the walls.

I yanked his face from the burner, keyed the speakerphone, and again demanded that T-Don call Poison Ivy. He agreed this time.

She answered, "T-Don, we're walking in right now. Where you at?"

"It's the Bat! He's here! Get outta here! Get outta here!"

How coincidental. What were the chances of me coming here to get information on Poison Ivy and only to have her show up just as the interrogation started to become productive? There was no use in talking to T-Don anymore.

On the back of the stainless-steel grill, I could see the reflection of a cook coming to T-Don's aid with a raised meat cleaver. I released T-Don's hair and shot my elbow back making contact with the bridge of the cook's nose. Blood splattered all over his face as the fragile bones crumbled. I followed up by planting a side kick square in his chest. With a _thud_, he sprawled across the grease-caked floor. I tossed T-Don's cell phone over my shoulder and resumed my hold of his dreadlocks, reaching for the back of his pants with my free hand. Like an old duffle bag, I wheeled him around and launched him headlong through the kitchen door, disintegrating it explosively in myriad fragments. T-Don made earth-fall about five feet out and slid another three.

I retreated beneath my cape and made for the door ducking slightly as I passed through into the dining room; my elbows practically rubbed the doorframe and the ears of my cowl cleared it with perhaps an inch to spare.

Poison Ivy and three of her thugs stood opposite of me near the entrance. She was dressed to kill; a fur coat, slacks, green heels and a designer purse concealing a gun no doubt. The dining room, half-full patrons, fell immediately silent. Ivy and her crew held their positions. I glared at them angrily and the stared at me nervously. Guess it was going to be a stand-off. A stand-off that would surely end with weapons drawn which meant that I was going to need to disarm them.

I readied three shurikens per hand beneath my cape. The shurikens wouldn't stop Ivy and her goons but they'd afford me enough time to close the distance and take Ivy and her crew apart.

I glowered at her intensely. Her green eyes locked with mine. I could see her uneasiness. Her lips trembled but over all she hid fear well.

"Whatcha waitin' for?" T-Don yelled holding his burnt face. "Shoot that sonuvabitch!"

I managed a few steps forward before they all drew their pistols.

"Don't get crazy, Batman," Poison Ivy snapped.

T-Don was desperate. "Shoot him!"

"They won't stop me," I growled. I was referring to the guns.

"You're not the one in danger of being plugged full of holes," Ivy said in a pungent tone. And, as if choreographed, she and her thugs turned their weapons on the patrons. "All these innocent people are the ones in danger. Do you want their blood on your hands?"

Panicked whimpers and prayers filled my ears. My chest swelled with anger and frustration. In my head, I saw the flashes of two gunshots and my parents fall to the concrete lifeless.

"Friggin' shoot him! Blast that sonuvabitch!"

Ivy maintained her cool. "Shut-up, T-Don, and get up," she demanded waving at him. "We're leaving."

I didn't move. I knew better. I could take a few bullets and still manage to put her in a body cast but I wouldn't be able to stop bullets from hitting these innocent people. I had no other choice except let her go. Poison Ivy had me in check, but it wasn't checkmate.

I stormed out of the backdoor into the alley and raced for the batmobile. Perhaps I could catch her. If not, I'd get her eventually.


	4. Chapter 4: House Call

/GOTHAM GAZETTE/

CHIEF PHYSICIAN'S FAMILY KIDNAPPED IN BROAD DAYLIGHT! WHERE WERE THE POLICE!

KNIGHTLY―In front of a stunned crowd at the corner of 21st Street and Farborough Drive near Harlow Park in Downtown, twelve masked gunmen pulled the family of Sukparm Sanman, Chief Physician at the François Rabelais Research Medical Facility, from their vehicle at a stoplight. Among the kidnapped were his wife Sumatra, 43; his eldest daughter Dalaja, 15; his son Ravinshu, 11; and his middle daughter Madhavi, 9.

According to eyewitnesses, the Sanman family, headed north on 21st Street, stopped at the red-light at Farborough Drive tailed by three black SUVs. Gunmen poured out of the trucks and ran up to the Sanman vehicle, pointing their weapons and forcing the family from it. They were hurried back to the SUVs, which left the scene in a frenzy, turning right to head east on Farborough Drive at alarming speeds. Forty-five minutes later, two police officers arrived on the scene.

Hu Liu Ning, who witnessed the entire event while jogging on her lunch break, claimed, "It all happened so quickly. I heard all this honking and screaming so I looked over and all I see are these men all dressed in black and wearing masks surround [the Sanman Family's] car. Next thing I know, the men are dragging [the Sanmans] away. It was terrible."

Emergency dispatchers answered over two-hundred incoming calls from witnesses at the scene. The noontime supervisor claimed that the dispatchers forwarded all reports to the responsible precinct but was unsure where the disconnect occurred. Gotham City Police Commissioner James Gordon responded to the incident by saying that he was also unsure where in the chain any miscommunication might have happen but that he was personally going to supervise both the investigations into the kidnapping of the Sanmans and into the failure of Police response.

Doctor Sanman commented to the responsible party, "Please return my family to me unharmed. I love them dearly. They are the most important thing to me in this world and I will do anything to have them back."

At this point, no one has claimed responsibility for the act and Gotham will have to wait patiently for this to play out.

I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I

9:51 PM

James Gordon had finally come out for his _before-bed_ cigarette―about fifteen minutes later than usual. I stood in the pitch blackness of his small backyard near the wall that separated his tenement and the one next door. His patio was one of very few _clean_ and _orderly_ places in Gotham, bordered on all sides by a cityscape coated with grit and grime and stained by apathy and fear. In his backyard, I always found a world so far removed from my own. Perhaps, it was because my home―to me―was a mausoleum haunted by the screaming echoes of my murdered family. That was not the case here. Here, it was silent. I often wondered if Bruce Wayne would find the same sense of quiet here that I do.

Despite Jim's welcoming disposition to my occasional―albeit impromptu―visits to his home, I tried my best not to make house calls. It was bad business for the Commissioner of police to be seen consorting with a vigilante―even if I was doing a service to Gotham that was agreed upon by common citizens. After all, the corrupt still ruled the city. They wouldn't rule it forever, though. Not while I still ruled the _night_. Needless to say, we had a lot to discuss and it couldn't wait until morning.

"Commissioner." I spoke just a hair above a whisper.

Jim was in the process of lighting his cigarette. He blew the flame out with a start. "You know you should probably wait until I've lit my cigarette before you sneak up on me."

There was no time for small talk. "It looks like Poison Ivy sent us a calling card."

"So you've seen the _new_ bodies?"

Dispatch had received a call reporting three men dead in the living room of a nondescript apartment in the Bowery. The caller didn't give their name but provided an address. I was only five blocks away when the call went through and I immediately hurried to the scene, arriving before the police. It's terrible to say but I was not the least bit surprised when I identified them. Most notably...

"Hugh Seaborne."

Jim's lighter grinded until a flame snapped to life and then he pulled several times on his cigarette until it was self-sustaining. He exhaled a cloud of relief into the air and looked in the direction of my disembodied voice. "You knew him?"

"We where...acquainted."

"When did you get there?"

"Before your people arrived."

"Good. I'm beginning to think the captain of that precinct is on the Bloodroot payroll. That's going to make the case go stale, if you know what I mean."

I hated crooked cops; even more than I hated criminals. I'd have to make that captain a later-project though. And, knowing Jim, he was already to trying to find a way to build a case to expose and to remove the captain from office.

"They were poisoned," I said. "The toxin is consistent with that used on Jacinto."

"Where is she getting this toxin from?"

"It was synthesized from the plants found at the docks. I'm still conducting research. I will keep you informed as more information becomes available. In the meantime, I have something for you."

I dropped a manila folder at Jim's feet. He picked it up and opened it.

The folder contained aerial photos of the license plates of the trucks used during the Sanman kidnapping.

"How did you get these?" The look on his face was priceless.

I ignored the question.

"The one you're looking at now is registered to T-Don Donnelly. That means the Bloodroots are responsible."

"That's puts us closer to an arrest than we were before. I'll have this out to all districts first thing in the morning."

"The license plates alone still won't implicate Donnelly nor Ivy."

He took a deep pull of his cigarette. "Something tells me that _won't_ stop you."

"You're probably right."

"So what's the connection between the Bloodroots and Sanman?"

"Cryonics."

Jim didn't look convinced. "Seems a little sophisticated for a bunch of gangbangers."

"Sanman oversees the cryonics department at François Rabelais. That's the connection. The plant that Ivy is using only has a shelf-life of tens hours―give or take—once cut. Then its toxic properties neutralize. The only way Ivy can keep it alive for the seventeen-day transit across the Atlantic is _cryopreservation_. My guess is: The cryonic expertise she was employing abroad didn't include service within the continental United States. Therefore, she needed to find a local expert. That local expert being Sanman."

Jim shrugged. "Makes sense."

"However, there is one small inconsistency with the hypothesis."

"Which is?"

"Sanman isn't an expert in the field of cryonics. He's merely the senior physician that happens to have oversight of several departments―the cryonics department included. I'm not sure why Ivy just didn't target one of the cryonists. Leverage, perhaps."

Jim massaged the corners of his mouth anxiously.

"Commissioner, is there something you haven't told me?"

He looked into the shadows at my vaguely discernable silhouette. "This may throw a wrench in your _hypothesis_, Batman." He pulled a USB thumb-drive from the pocket of his jacket and placed it on the banister of the patio. "I have to go inside. Listen to the audio file on that and see what you can come up with."

"I'll be in touch," I whispered.


	5. Chapter 5: Bad To Worse

DATE: 11 OCT

TIME: 19:13 LOCAL

CASE NO.: 0000328719-0902

ELAPSED: 00:01:08.880

NUMBER: Untraceable

MESSAGE: "Good evening Doctor Sanman. My name is Doctor Victor Freiss. We do not know each other but you have something very dear to me. I have something very dear to you, as well. I am currently in possession of your wife and children. I assure you that they are quite safe and well cared for. But, I will warn you that their continued safety is incumbent on your cooperation with my demands. My wife, Nora Freiss, is being held at your facility against her will. I want my wife, in her current state, delivered to pier seventy-six at the Southeast Dockland for transport out of the country in forty-eight hours. We will make a simultaneous exchange: my family for yours. Do not involve law enforcement. If in forty-eight hours my demands have not been met, your family will meet a bitter, cold end. Don't fail them."

/END/

I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I

9:39 PM

The whole situation went from bad to terrible.

"Hold still, Master Bruce," Alfred demanded as he tugged at the skin surrounding my most recent laceration, "or I will be unable to close the wound properly. You really need to stop nearly getting yourself killed. You're exhausting my medical talents."

I gritted my teeth. It wasn't the pain. It was the frustration. It was the consideration that I was behind the power curve—still. The situation was spiraling out of control. I needed to figure out how to bring this affair to a close. The more time I spent deliberating, however, the more momentum the criminals gained.

In just two weeks, Poison Ivy flooded the Bowery with a new narcotic called _Hemlock—_or just _Lock_ for short. Its narcotic effects swept through the slums at an epidemic pace equaled only by _Crack _several decades earlier.

The emergency rooms were overflowing with overdosing patients and a drug war was breaking out all over the Eastside as the Bloodroots clashed with their rivals for supremacy. The police in that jurisdiction seemed to be ignoring the entire thing. Commissioner Gordon was doing what he could from his lofty perch but that wasn't protecting the common citizens from the chaos that the drug was breeding. After all, he was the Commissioner of Police not a beat cop. His jurisdiction was command and control, not micro-law enforcement.

The Bowery wasn't the only place affected. _Lock_ was circulating just as rapidly through the Narrows and had been the cause of several isolated incidents in the more affluent areas of the city.

I had needed concrete data on the drug—not just media speculation and forensic hearsay, so I had stormed into a bath-house in Chinatown, that was known for being a drug den for the Gotham elite, to acquire samples. The operation went routinely—if a nearly seven foot, three-hundred pound bat crashing through the skylight could be called routine—with the exception of some lowlife deciding that it was a great idea to impale me with a decorative spear that had hung from the wall. I guess the individual hadn't anticipated the integrity of my armor. Fortunately, it stopped the majority of the lethality of the weapon. Unfortunately, it only stopped a _majority _of the lethality. Part of the spear's edge managed to bypass the armor plates and carbon bi-weave and bit—albeit, rather deeply—into the muscle beneath my arm. The wound wasn't bad enough to prevent me from teaching the assailant the consequences of attacking the Batman—he'll think twice next time. The wound _was_ bad enough, however, that I had to put my investigation on hold and return to the cave to have the laceration stitched; blood was pouring from my armpit and pooling in my boot.

That was only the bad part.

"Master Bruce, if you do not stop fidgeting, I am going to stitch your arm to your ribcage."

The terrible part was Victor Freiss. Freiss gave Dr. Sanman forty-eight hours to meet his demand. And, that was ninety-six hours ago. As promised, Freiss delivered the Sanman family _frozen_ when Sanman, advised and supported by a contingent of hostage negotiators from the Major Crimes Unit, didn't produce Freiss' equally frozen wife. Worse yet, Freiss only delivered three of the four Sanmans. He was still in custody of the nine-year old, Madhavi.

I had to find her and figure out how to reverse the cryo-process. Slim chance of the latter happening considering the leading minds in the medical profession had not managed it. And, while I credited myself as being an unparalleled problem-solver, I was hardly an medical expert—I wasn't going to be deterred, though.

Freiss, on the other hand, was the only person to ever have successfully and consistently affected a thaw. My guess was that Freiss had data detailing a successful reversal. That made finding him my number one priority.

The sound of the phone ringing returned me to my body and suddenly I was aware of the pain. Alfred, placed the instrument he was using on the table and crossed the floor to answer it. "Wayne Manor. How may I help you? Oh, very good, Miss Gordon. I will patch you through. Please hold a moment. It's Barbara Gordon, Master Bruce." Alfred returned the receiver to its dock and keyed the video. Oracle's face materialized on a display connected to the computer.

"Batman?" Her face pruned. "Damn. What happened to you?"

"A spear," I said as I inspected Alfred's nearly-finished handiwork. He returned to resume the stitching. "What do you have for me, Oracle?"

"A _spear_? Were you fighting Spartans?"

My face hardened.

"Okay—tough crowd. So I…uh," she said looking away from the camera and at a display to her right, "I got quite a bit, actually. I'll just talk while you two do your thing."

I nodded approvingly.

"Victor Diakon Freiss, age sixty-four, was born an only child in Kaliningrad, East Prussia on January 13th, 1946 to a prominent Soviet family of noble Prussian descent. His childhood is relatively uneventful up until his mother disappeared when he was twelve. The disappearance remains unsolved to this day."

I didn't have time to get involved in Freiss' personal life nor the psychology of his childhood. "Let's not solve the mystery of his mother's disappearance right now."

"Okay. Moving on. He graduated at the top of his high school class at age fifteen and was then sent by his family to attend the Lomonosov Moscow State University to pursue a predetermined profession as a physician—"

Alfred interjected, "_Great_ use of alliteration, Miss Gordon. English professionals abound would be delighted by your agility with the language."

We ignored him.

"—where he studied cellular biology and bioengineering and graduated Magna Cum Laude. He then studied at the University of Istanbul for six years in the fields of cryobiology and cryogenics. From there he moved on to study at Oxford where he stayed for twelve years and continued to study in the field of cryogenics, but also began dabbling into the field of cryonics. There he met his wife, Nora; also age sixty four. They were married in November of 1976 and lived happily from what I can tell."

"Clearly."

"If I may," Alfred interrupted again as he washed my blood from his hands, "what, pray tell, is the difference between cryogenics and cryonics?"

I stretched my arm above my head, checking the integrity of the stitches. "In layman's terms, cryogenics is the study of and exercise of very low temperatures."

"And, cryonics," Oracle took the _hand-off,_ "is the study of the effects of very low temperatures on living organisms."

"Understand?" I asked.

"Cool."

I looked at Alfred from the corner of my eye. Something told me he already knew the difference between the two disciplines and he was just looking for a reason to be facetious.

Oracle continued, "As his time drew to a close at Oxford, he was offered a position at the François Rabelais Research Medical Facility here in Gotham where he made tremendous breakthroughs in both fields and catapulted the field of cryonics into mainstream science."

"I'm moved."

Alfred laughed at my sarcasm.

"Here's where we get to the meat of it: He was investigated on two separate occasions regarding the ethics of his research and his testing of live subjects. Both cases were dismissed, the investigations were shelved, and he was placed on administrative leave for undisclosed reasons. External to the investigations, he was arrested for domestic assault and battery against his wife but never went to court because Nora refused to press charges.

"About three years—and probably several beatings—later, Nora was diagnosed with a rare blood-deteriorating condition for which doctors—fourteen to be exact—were unable to halt her prognosis."

I slid off the table, walked over to my armory, and began reorganizing the contents of my utility-belt. "And, in his powerlessness, he froze her."

"Yeah. Some of her coworkers had become concerned when she hadn't returned to work over a period of several weeks. Considering Freiss' history of abuse, they reported her uncharacteristically long absence to the police. A warrant was promptly issued and the policed investigated their house. Authorities found a cryonics laboratory in Freiss' basement composed of stolen industrial equipment and live testing subjects; rats mostly, some cats, and few dogs. More importantly, in a shower-sized, metal tank, they discovered Nora's body in suspended animation. He was promptly arrested and deported back to Russia. His wife's body, on the other hand, is maintained here in Gotham at the—_surprise_ _surprise_—François Rabelais Research Medical Facility where the cryonics division was tasked to find a way to reverse the process. Which they still haven't managed to do, mind you."

"Can you blame him? We all will go to great lengths to preserve love," Alfred said as he sterilized our makeshift operating table. "After all, who wants to watch their loved-ones die? I suppose he had to do what no one else could until he could find a cure."

"Are you serious?" I growled.

"As a stab wound," he retorted.

"What he did was insane."

"No more insane, I suppose, than masquerading like a bat and scaring the dickens out of an entire city."

"Not even the same thing." My voice took on that distinct Batman tone, "Freiss isn't some tragic character out of a fairy tale. He _froze_ his wife, Alfred. Against her will. And, there's no survivable thawing process. She probably begged and pleaded with him to stop. He signed her death certificate. He might as well have shot her in alleyway in cold-blood."

The cave fell silent; only the faint beatings of bat wings and of dripping water were audible. Shadows danced on the cave walls reenacting my parents' murder in macabre fanfare. My memory supplanted the silence with the sounds of gunshots and my mother's screams. The resurrected pain caused a drumming in my ears.

"Bruce."

I didn't answer Oracle despite hearing her. She called my name once more but I was still lost in the nightmare. I'm not exactly sure how long I was gone but finally she said, "Earth calling Batman. Come-in, Batman."

I looked up.

"You okay?"

"I'm going after Poison Ivy. Alfred, help me with my armor please."

"Know yourself, Master Wayne, and see your enemy reflected," Alfred said.

My brow furrowed. "My armor please. Help me."


	6. Chapter 6: No More Subtlety

/GOTHAM GAZETTE/

GANG VIOLENCE BURNS UNCHECKED IN THE BOWERY

KNIGHTLY―Within weeks of Pamela Isley's―aka Poison Ivy―release, sections of the Bowery became a warzone as camps loyal to Isley and those opposed began openly fighting over territory.

Supporters of Isley's Bloodroot Gang rampaged through the streets clashing with rival Bowery gangs Los Muertos, the Parkside Heights Gangsters, and the Five Point Street Disciples with the purpose of swaying illicit market forces in the Bloodroots' favor and to acquire the right to distribute the new drug _Hemlock_—or just _Lock_ for short.

The Gotham City Police Department's Gang Task Force Unit and SWAT Teams augmented the police forces in that precinct to bring order to the Bowery but after sustaining two causalities, withdrew their units seeking only to contain the violence.

In the wake of the chaos, thirty-two persons—gang-members, bystanders, and police—were found dead and sixty-eight injured. No arrests have been made.

I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I

11:53 PM

No more subtlety.

Poison Ivey wasn't going to escape me again like she did at the Mexican restaurant and I wasn't going to waste another moment trying to intercept her at an opportune time. I was going to lay siege to her entire operation. I was going to teardown every hideout, hangout, and safe-house she maintained and until I found her, backed her into corner, and made her beg for mercy.

I calculated that the first place I needed to storm was her mid-town, redbrick condominium. It was situated in the historic district of Reatton, west of Gainsly and north of The Narrows, offering her the most comfort and defensibility—the most likely place for me to find her with a gang war erupting on the streets.

She had spent contemptible amounts of drug-money restoring and upgrading her section of the building. Most notably, building an extension onto the balcony and then enclosing it to form a greenhouse—her own home _away from home_. I surmised that the greenhouse doubled as an orchard in which she grew many of the illegal substances she distributed. I'd confirm that soon enough.

Something of a new-age naturalist, Poison Ivy installed wood furnishings throughout the flat and had much of the brick in her den replaced with long-windows to introduce more natural lighting.

I was on a face-first collision course with those windows.

As usual, my calculations were correct. Poison Ivy was sitting on her couch in the den with T-Don at her side and with six more goons to keep her company. She was probably paranoid that was coming for her. Ivy plus T-Don plus six goons equaled eight Bloodroots—the paramedics were going to busy tonight.

In my current state-of-mind, numbers meant nothing; eight people made the odds more even. The more Bloodroots I took out in one spot meant less Bloodroots on the streets. Less Bloodroots on the streets meant more time I could devote to other endeavors. With any luck, _more_ of her gang would show up before I crashed the party.

I was doped on adrenaline. My fingers and toes tingled as I glided towards Ivy's condo. The numbness made me feel unstoppable; a dangerous disposition to have. Criminals could be lethal even if I believed they were spineless.

I still had about twenty seconds to fully achieve the mental state that I needed to execute this attack successfully.

As I torpedoed toward Ivy's living room, I emptied my thoughts letting the sound of the air rushing over my cowl center me, when I suddenly had a moment of clarity: I actually leapt from a tower a quarter mile away and was gliding to Poison Ivy's condo—full of murderous criminals—without ever devising a plan of action.

What the hell was I thinking?

I wasn't thinking—not completely, anyway.

By the time I realized that I was going into a fight with a group of Bloodroots without at least taking into account the possibilities, it was too late to even organize a substantial plan. My face was fast-approaching the window pane and taking time out to plan would break the focus I needed to make a successful landing.

Conclusion: I didn't have the time develop a plan, so I didn't have time to worry about it either. Besides, any plan I could have concocted would have been tossed-out the moment the Bloodroots started slinging lead. I chose then to focus on what was important at the moment.

There was a goon—who I labeled _number-one _—standing at the window at which I was plunging, taking in the Reatton skyline. He stared up at me with a hand on each hip. He could see me but his mind hadn't resolved what I was. A cloud? Smoke? A shadow? Is it moving? No. Couldn't be. Wait...NO!

Seconds before impact, _number-one_ suddenly realized he and all his buddies were going to be leaving on stretchers; his hands came up in front his face, his eyes slammed shut, and his face twisted in terror. I adjusted the angle of my cape, the friction causing me to decelerate. Once I was sure that I had the window made, I lowered my head, collapsed the cape, and...

In an epic crescendo of exploding glass, I plowed through the pane head-first, spearing _number one_ and taking him clear off his feet. His body buckled and wrapped around me like a glove and then flopped down hard when we crashed to the floor; glass rained in a circle about us as we landed.

He cushioned my landing. The force of the impact, however, left him barely conscious.

Like roaches when the lights came on, everyone else in the room scattered to the far corners of the parlor, bulldozing whatever stood in their way: furniture, each other―whatever. Poison Ivy made a break for the greenhouse whilst T-Don escaped through the front door. I knew that they wouldn't stand and fight.

Wait...

Was Ivy wearing a bathing suit?

I would have swore she was.

The adrenaline must have been making me see things.

_Number one_ and I slid across the hardwood floor and up against the back of the couch. Perfect. I wouldn't have to scramble for cover when...

The shooting started.

Criminals were so predictable.

The Bloodroots discharged their weapons in a frenzy. Unable to aim through the panic, they pointed their weapons in my general direction and pulled their triggers relentlessly. Bullets whizzed by, striking everything around me. Lamps exploded, the lights flickered out of existence darkening the room with each bullet. Windows crumbled, inviting cold air to whip through the parlor. An end-table even collapsed, its legs were blown clean off. Already blocked by the couch, I draped myself over _number-one_ to shield him from any stray fire.

I took a hit in the thigh. The round passed through the couch before hitting me, fortunately expending much of its kinetic energy. My armor absorbed what was left over. Regardless, my leg screamed in pain. It would be bruised for days to come but at least the injury wasn't grievous.

Gunfire continued to rain. I didn't risk coming out of cover to distract them. There were no more than twelve-to-seventeen bullets in each handgun. Since they all opened fire at the same time, they'd all need to reload at the same time. I planned on getting payback for the pain in my thigh.

The shower of bullets ceased practically all at once, each magazine supplying its final round and the operating rod of each gun hungrily slamming open. In that brief latency of a collective ceasefire, I leapt to my feet, grasped the back of the sectional with both hands and began to charge _numbers-two, -three, _and -_four_ like an angry freight train, using the sectional as battering ram. Its legs shrieked as they scraped across the floor.

The three goons' faces pruned. What to do next? Reload or get clear? They're nervous systems and brains were in an argument on the best action. I didn't give them time to sort it out. I drove the couch with everything I could muster and I crushed the three gunmen between the huge piece of furniture and the wall. The impact was thunderous. They howled in pain, dropping their weapons. Two clawed the couch trying to free themselves and the other tried to push away from the wall. I reached down, grabbing a hold of the base, and heaved the couch over, flipping the sectional onto them for good measure. It came down mercilessly, pinning them.

I looked over my shoulder at _number-five _and -_six _on the far side of the bullet-riddled room—just in time, too. _Number-five _had managed to insert a new magazine and was raising his weapon to resume; _number-six _wasn't far behind.

There was nowhere to go; only one option.

In one motion, like a matador taunting a bull, I raised my cape out in front of me with my forward arm and I bladed my body—turned myself perpendicular to the gunmen—to make a smaller target. I stepped on the base of the cape with my forward foot pulling it taut so that it would present a much larger target for them. Hopefully, they'd aim at the cape instead of at me and it would absorb the lethal strokes of the bullets.

The cape was a lightweight Kevlar, bi-carbon mesh, and nylon tri-weave with a silk in-lay. The tri-weave made the fabric amazingly durable and fire resistant due to its profound tensile strength. But it was the silk that made it exceptionally resistant to ballistics. Silk was historically notorious for disallowing the penetration of bullets and arrows. While the cape paled in comparison to solid cover, it was better than the alternative.

_Number-five _and -_six_ frantically slammed round after round into the cape like I had hoped. But, I'd have been a fool to think they wouldn't eventually land a lucky shot if I continued to stand there. I readied the grapnel gun and drew a flash-bang from my utility-belt. I lobbed the grenade over my arm and across the room. The canister landed short but rolled the rest of the distance to their feet. I closed my eyes and braced myself.

_KA-BOOM! _There was thunder and lightning. The entire room shuddered. _Number-five_ and -_six_ doubled over cradling their ears with their hands and squeezing their eyes shut. I had to be quick; they wouldn't be stunned for long.

I dropped the cape and fired the grapnel at _number-five_'s leg. The hook seized his pants leg and I activated the motor, reeling in the slack. The goon was yanked off of his feet when the line tensed and fell onto his side with a _thud_. I ramped-up the RPMs and dragged him face-down across the floor. He flailed and screamed. I could hear his nails digging into the floor. I was over top of him as he came close and pounded him into unconsciousness with two blows to the back of the head.

_Number-six_ managed two wild shots that came nowhere near hitting me; his vision was still impaired from the flash-bang. I sprinted to his position at the far wall; motion parallax made getting a bead on me impossible for him. When I was within kicking distance, I punted his head through the sheet-rock with toe of my boot. He slumped over leaving a hole in the wall the size of his skull.

The parlor fell silent, so I drew my tablet from my utility-belt and increased the gain on the cowl's aural receivers to its normal level—I had turned the gain down in anticipation of the firefight—when I heard more movement behind me. There was no way _number-five_ was still conscious! Not with the power I put behind those two punches.

I whipped around. _N__umber-five_ was still lying face down in a pool of blood. _Number-four_, however, was the source of the sound; he was still trying to stay in the fight. I guess having a couch dropped on him wasn't enough to convince him to stay down.

With glass and debris crunching beneath my boots, I stalked back across the room towards _number-four_, snatching-up the last intact lamp by its chord; it swung back-and-forth at knee-level. As I approached, he demanded that I stay away from him or he'd shoot me. He even called me a demon. The gun trembled in his hand; I hated having guns pointed at me. I swung the lamp above my head and brought it crashing down over his—lights out.

Still conscious, _n__umber-two _and -_three_ squirmed beneath the massive sectional. I jumped on top of the mangled piece of furniture, the sudden addition of weight causing them both to cry out. I neared the edge and lifted my cape out of the way so I could see their faces when I looked down. Their heads were pinned between the wall and the couch. A look of horror washed over _number-two's_ face when he saw me standing above them and _number-three_ burst into tears. They were definitely out of the fight; just had to make sure. I didn't want them taking any cheap shots while I beat down their boss.

Speaking of Ivy…

I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I

I flung the double doors to the greenhouse open and marched in. It was as if I had been instantly transported into the Laotian jungles—there were hundreds of species of trees and plants filling the gigantic room from wall-to-wall. The canopy was so thick, in fact, that I was unable to see the twenty-foot steeple ceilings. The temperature must have climbed thirty degrees and the humidity had to have tripled. While my armor could reasonably compensate for inconvenient temperatures, it couldn't affect humidity.

I had to admit, if I had been introduced to her greenhouse under more official circumstances, I would have been impressed. For now, I needed to figure out where Poison Ivy was hiding in the wooded sprawl. Oddly enough, I could hear music coming from deep inside the greenhouse.

I smelled a trap.

Using the scallops of my gauntlets—the three three-inch blades that jutted out of my bracers—as machetes, I hacked my way through the foliage. Doing so lacked my usual subtlety but it wasn't as if Poison Ivy didn't know I was coming. Subsequently, I was brought to an abrupt halt when I smacked into what felt like a wall after about thirty paces. I couldn't have reached the far wall; the greenhouse's external dimensions demanded that the inside be larger. Puzzled, I chopped more branches down and brushed the ferns and leaves aside to reveal a transparent partition—with hundreds of breather holes at regular intervals—bisecting the enormous room. On the other side of the partition was more foliage...and Poison Ivy.

She sat on a green law-chair in a small, grass-covered glade wearing a green one-piece bathing suit and green high heels, drinking from a martini glass and listening to music from a green iPod.

Ivy's legs were flawless, glistening like porcelain in the passive lighting of the chamber. Her nails were colored green as were her lips and her ruby-red hair pinned up with a plant-themed clip. Ivy didn't look like a ruthless queenpin. Every other drug lord looked the part. But not Ivy.

"It's not polite to keep a girl waiting," she said looking up from her glass and stirring it with the little umbrella.

I hadn't been hallucinating. She really was wearing a bathing suit. What was she thinking? Was she trying to make some sort of ridiculous statement or did she think that I was going to relent because she was dressed like a Victoria Secret floozy? Truth be told, she was taking this Poison Ivy _identity-_thing too far.

I jerked a thumb over my shoulder. "I left you a present in the parlor."

She chuckled.

"Surrender," I growled.

She batted her long eyelashes, "For what?"

I stormed up to partition and roared through a hole, "Seven people are dead by your hand, countless thousands are going to their graves because of the narcotics you're flooding the streets with, and Freiss is attached to your leash!"

"I _don't _surrender. Nor am I interested in your accusations, Batman. You're just repeating what you heard on the news. If they paint me as a monster, you'll believe 'em."

"I know about your entire operation—from start to finish."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she snapped spilling some of her drink. "And, neither do you."

I _hated_ it when criminals feigned innocence.

I stabbed the air with my finger. "I know that you manufactured _L__ock_ from a plant that you imported from Africa. The very same type that I found at the docklands in a state of cryopreservation. I also know that their survivability wouldn't allow typical transport, so you needed to find a cryonist capable of rendering the plants in stasis, as well as successfully thawing them once they arrived. And, you found the only cryonist that had ever managed it: Victor Freiss—a psychopath who was deported for his offenses against an innocent woman."

Her brow furrowed. I struck a chord.

My limbs disappeared beneath my cape. "You offered to smuggle him back into Gotham," the anger began to drain from my voice but I sounded no less accusing, "and to provide him with the muscle he needed to further his own designs in exchange for his expertise so that you could mass-produce your narcotic. Moreover, you had Reuben Jacinto and two of his cronies murdered with a toxin that you synthesized from your new narcotic—lethal when absorbed through the skin. The fourth corpse at the scene was your assassin. He administered the toxin with spray bottle _except_ that he didn't survive because he accidentally dosed himself when the bottle leaked. You're also responsible for the killing of three others…one being your goon Hugh Seaborne from the Docklands. And, you're indirectly responsible for the kidnapping of the Sanman family.

"You're a murderer and an accessory to international crimes against citizens of Gotham City. You're going to surrender and tell me where Freiss is—"

She pursed her lips. "Or?"

"Or I'm going to break both of your legs. You do it my way and you'll walk in six months. You do it your way and you'll never walk again."

Again she chuckled, trying to appear unaffected. "Right," she placed the drink on the side table upon which sat her iPod and picked up the universal remote that accompanied it. The remote was a bit out of place. I hadn't seen any TV's or electronics that it controlled. I made a mental note. "If you want me, you're gonna have to come get me."

She was baiting me. I wasn't biting. The parlor door was the only way out of the greenhouse. That meant the only way she was leaving was through me. Fat chance of that happening. I'd just wait her out. She'd get dehydrated eventually. I had rations in my utility-belt.

She returned her drink to her lips, "Well...what're you waiting on."

"I don't have anywhere to be."

"So you're just gonna stand there?"

I didn't answer.

"You've gotta be kidding me. Are you really just gonna stand there and stare at me?"

I still didn't answer.

"Ugh. Waiting ain't gonna work in your favor, Batman."

I was eager to hear the reason...

"I got an entire army of street-soldiers—on their way right now—with nothing to lose and nothing better to do than put your ass on ice." Ivy made a cocking-gun motion with her hand.

I wasn't the least bit intimidated. "I already put down seven of your _street-soldiers_."

Her voice became venomous. "Then just stand there. I wanna see you try to take on fifty of my thugs…and fail miserably."

She was probably bluffing. But if she wasn't bluffing, this could get messy. Engaging twenty gun-toting criminals with the element of surprise was my forte. But fifty was pushing it, especially if I couldn't see them through this foliage. I had to assume that they had assault weapons and could riddle the greenhouse with automatic weapons fire from the door. I decided I'd take my chances with Ivy's trap.

I started looking around for a way through the partition.

Ivy pointed to my left. "The door is over there."

I followed her hand. She was indicating something further down but all I could see was more foliage. I wondered what surprise she had waiting for me. There was only one to find out.

I began to hack my way through the growth along the partition, skimming through a string of possible traps in my head. After ten paces, I reached a transparent door leading through the partition. I didn't see anything but more foliage on the other side. In fact, I couldn't see Ivy from where I was standing. And, once I was through, she would spring the trap. I had to be quick.

I began pushing the door open; it was heavy. The resistance of its auto-closing spring was epic. Once the door was open wide enough to fit, I squeezed through and bludgeoned a path to the glade. The lawn chair was empty when I arrived.

I turned a circle. Her half-finished drink with smeared green lipstick sat on the side table with the iPod. The remote was gone, though. I didn't see any distinct footprints nor a path cut through the surrounding foliage.

When I had spun a half-moon shape, I saw Poison Ivy, staring at me smugly from the other side of the partition—the parlor side. She and I had switched places.

There were two doors, the one which she directed me towards and another reciprocal door that I couldn't see. My veins ran hot and my fingers began to tingle. I clenched my fists in effort to relieve the sensation.

She waved the remote in front of her face, taunting me, and then pressed a button. I hunched over anticipating something explosive. Instead there was a sudden _snap-click_ of a locking mechanism. She bolted both of the doors; the trap was set.

"Well Batman," she was speaking through a breather hole, "I gotta tell you that I'm flattered to have finally popped up on your radar. I had managed to stay beneath your notice all this time but now I'm on the Batman's personal hit-list. It takes a special kinda person to be worthy of your attention and I'm proud to see that I have achieved just that. Can't say that I'm pleased, though. Fact of the matter is: I think you're a joke. You're one giant sham, an overdressed con-artist. You think you're so righteous that you can judge all of Gotham. The people fear you like some demon. But this close...I see that you're just a kook in a costume. You're no better than the rest of us—"

"I'm nothing like the rest of you," I cut-in. "You're all virus, sucking the life out of the city."

"And what does that make you exactly?"

"The cure."

"Who're you to judge me? I'm no different than any other _Tom, Dick, _and_ Harry_ trying to make it in this forsaken city." She checked the integrity of her lipstick with her free hand. "I lied. There is a difference between me and everyone else in this city: I'm the person who had what it took to claw my way to the top in this rat-race; I'm the person who had what took to go from rags-to-riches; and I'm the person who had what it took to erase the Batman. I'm gonna be a _legend _in the streets. You...you're gonna be a memory that fades."

"Cowards don't become legends. And, you're going out of here on a stretcher." I paused for effect._ "Coward_."

There was a moment of silence between us as she sized me up. Then she found her closing statement. "Rot in hell, freak." She hit another button on the remote and, following a brief buzzing sound, the watering nozzles began spraying mist into my side of the partition. I waited for an explosion. There was none. A bit anti-climactic.

The mist began to collect on my cowl and armor as I watched her disappear into her personal jungle.

Her remote controlled her watering nozzles...odd.

The mist was being sprayed...

_Sprayed_.

Rueben Jacinto was sprayed.

Not mist.

My gut tensed.

A toxin—the weaponized form of the drug _Lock!_

I immediately covered my face with my cape and rigged an explosive charge to the partition and hit the detonator. But, it had no effect, leaving only and indistinct burn. I didn't waste time thinking about it. There was always more than one exit. I just needed go out the same manner I came in—through a window.

I sprinted through the brush; face slung beneath my cape to prevent the toxin from dripping into my eyes or exposed skin, and went bodily into the panoramic view-pane of the greenhouse but bounced off harmlessly.

Dammit! I really was trapped. I wasn't going to be able to protect myself from the toxin forever. And, I could see safety just on the other side! Think, Batman! Think!

"Batman," Oracle's voice crackled to life inside my cowl, "I've got Ivy on the move in an SUV and you're not in pursuit. Is everything alright?"

"Oracle, is the UAV overhead?"

"It is." She could sense my urgency—and uncommon sentiment from me.

I keyed the beacon on my tablet. "Open fire on my position!"

"What?"

"My position! Open fire!"

She hesitated.

"Oracle!"

"Fifteen seconds out."

Fifteen seconds felt like forever. I started a breathing mantra that helped slow the metabolism. The world went suddenly silent as I focused inward. If my skin had absorbed any of the toxins, the mantra would help to slow the effects.

Out of the grim silence, however, came the thunderous drum roll from the UAV's Gatling cannon as it unleashed its payload in gouts of flame. I dropped to the ground beneath my cape to remain clear of the UAVs laser like stream of bullets that flung bits of ballistic glass and metal frame about the greenhouse, leaving a gaping wound in its support structure. I was on my feet when the UAV finished, and ran to the hole at top speed leaping into the safety of the night.

I gave a two-count, letting freefall purge my armor of some of the toxin, then opened my cape and glided over the street.

"Oracle, which way did Ivy go?"

"Come left, Batman."

I did.

"Then make a right down the next street."

"Take control of the batmobile and have it intercept me." I was trying to come up with a plan.

"Understood."

I banked wide around the building on the corner of the intersection. I needed to remain centered on the street if I could help it. This portion of Gotham was congested and by remaining centered, I could descend without having to compete with power lines and street lamps. The least of my concerns, really. I found myself descending at a higher-than-normal rate and my steering was abnormally inadequate.

I divided my attention between navigating the airspace above the busy double-lane avenue and inspecting my cape for irregularities.

You had to be kidding me! Friggin bullet holes! There were bullet holes in my cape and they were causing the air to vent out too fast. My glide-to-descent ratio was probably halved—probably worse. I shouldn't have been angry about it. The cape was _resistant_ to ballistics, not _impervious_. Nevertheless, I was still angry about it.

I gritted my teeth. "Oracle, be quick about it. My cape is compromised."

"These aren't the roads around Wayne Manor. I'm moving the batmobile as fast as I can in this traffic. Hard left at the next intersection."

"Hard left. Got it." I banked at a knife-edge around the next turn. I could see the batmobile whipping through traffic in the distance.

"Ivy's only two blocks ahead of you, Batman."

I didn't answer. I was too busy trying to keep myself stable as I attempted to slow my descent to a survivable landing speed. I had to forget about Poison Ivy for the moment and concentrate on landing. If I broke my back in the process, she'd get away for sure. One thing at a time.

"I'm bringing it right under you," Oracle said.

The batmobile materialized beneath me and a briefest moment of elation washed over me. Then I remembered that I wasn't out of hot water yet; after all, the landing was mandatory but survival was optional. I aimed for the rearmost portion of the roof, praying that the added airspeed would afford me enough momentum to fall forward onto the canopy rather than over the sides or the back to my death. I evaded an array of stoplights as I descended and then made my final bid for the batmobile.

The landing was going to hurt with as much speed as I was carrying. Despite the armor's spinal reinforcement, I suspected I was going to need a chiropractor when this was over.

"Hurry, Batman." The calm of Oracle's voice belied the urgency of her demand. "Stoplight coming up."

Three feet to go. Two feet. One…

I collapsed the cape as my feet made contact with the roof causing me to fall forward to my aim-point. The impact was intense even with my armor. _Intense_ was an understatement in all actual honesty, the pain caused me to go momentarily deaf. I was completely desensitized to the world. The air was pushed from my lungs and my teeth slammed together when I landed and I had to will myself to remain conscious. I grasped ferociously at whatever my hands could manage to keep from sliding off.

I made it.

I lay sprawled across the canopy for a brief second. The coldness of the metal against the exposed portion of my face was oddly comforting. It didn't relieve the all the pain, though. In spite of it all, I crawled hand-over-hand to the cockpit and slid into the seat, situating myself at the controls and took a deep breathe. I could taste blood. I think I even bit my tongue. I couldn't tell though, my mouth was numb from the adrenaline.

My vision cleared and I became instantly aware of my surroundings. I was about ten seconds from the red-light and the cars sitting at it. "I got it," I said as I opened throttle to full; the engine roared.

"I had it," Oracle replied, the remote control indication extinguishing.

I had to act quickly so that I didn't plow through the traffic. The batmobile was built like a tank and would make short work of the unsuspecting vehicles sitting at the light. Fortunately, the batmobile wasn't built _only _like a tank. It had control-surfaces like a plane which afforded the exclusive ability to make spectacular jumps. And I was going to have to jump the cars at the intersection if I was to keep from killing anyone.

I deployed all the control-surfaces to give the batmobile as much lift as it could muster and then I jammed the booster open. The car shoved me deep into the seat as the booster came to life accelerating the car well beyond the engine's capability and lifted off of the ground like a plane on takeoff. I immediately shut the booster down, not wanting to overheat the engine, as I leaped over the cars and settled back onto the street on the far side of the intersection.

The whole drama was quite the spectacle for the Gothamites on the street at the time without a doubt. Every columnist from here to Bristol was going to have something to say about this.

Back to Poison Ivy.

"Oracle, I need a top-down feed of Ivy's position relative to mine," I said closing the throttle halfway and whipping aggressively around other cars.

"No problem, Batman. Do me a favor, though: Turn off your beacon. The alarm is driving me nuts."

The image appeared on my heads-up-display as I reached for my tablet and exited the beacon application. I was gaining on Ivy with only four blocks to go.

The adrenaline-high was beginning to wear off. I was becoming aware of the pain: The pain in my thigh, the pain under my arm, the pain in mouth. It wasn't incapacitating by any means. In fact, it was quite the opposite. Many years ago, I had learned pain-control from a group of yogis. They taught me to tune pain out or use it to my advantage—to channel it into something constructive. I rerouted all the pain to give me a single-minded goal: Be unstoppable; be relentless. Singular goals put me in the zone. That zone that gave me the precision I needed to do reckless things and come out on top when the odds were stacked against me―like yanking a four-ton car through traffic at breakneck speeds.

I jockeyed the power and weaved a pattern in and out of the lanes through the sea of tail-lights until I finally could see Ivy's SUV. Two more swerves and some power, I slid in directly behind the truck.

Poison Ivy and her entourage didn't notice the batmobile pulling up behind them. If they had, the driver would have started driving erratically. That didn't happen. I could see Ivy and her goons celebrating their second consecutive escape from me. They probably felt untouchable. The jails couldn't hold her and police couldn't stop her. Not even the famed and feared Batman could. Since this whole charade had been the first official meeting between me and Poison Ivy, I felt compelled to teach her a critical lesson: Criminals _don't_ get away from the Batman for long.

I fired two tow-cables at the truck, scoring direct hits with both harpoons; one in the rear hatch and the other into the frame. The driver, startled by the impact, swerved violently and ping-ponged off the cars parked along the right side of the street. Two gunshots from inside the SUV caused the rear window to melt away, revealing a panicked Ivy brandishing a pistol. Her face didn't have that smug arrogance it displayed during our last two meetings, now there was a look of disbelief. She emptied her magazine through the demolished window of the zigzagging vehicle, hitting the batmobile only twice; the bullets bounced off harmlessly.

I reeled-in the slack of the cables, pulled the throttle to idle, and slammed on the brakes. The force caused the first cable to tear the hatch from the SUV, slinging the door over my canopy and bouncing off the street behind me. I pressed a button shearing that cable. The second cable held firmly and the weight of the batmobile brought the truck to a dramatic halt.

The driver and passenger doors swung open. As expected, the Bloodroots had no intent of going down without a fight. T-Don and the driver emerged with hateful grimaces and assault rifles and unleashed a torrent of ammunition into the batmobile. Round-after-round pounded the armor and casing-after-casing rained on the concrete. Ivy watched intently from the cabin. I did the same from the protection of the cockpit. They'd need heavier firepower to put so much as a dent in this beast.

Smoke wisped from the hot barrels of both weapons as the last shells hit the street. T-Don and his comrade puzzled over whether they had managed to actually gun-down the Bat. After they exchanged uncomfortable looks, they cautiously approached the batmobile to either side. As T-Don drew near, I could make out the distinct burn mark on his left cheek; that made me smile―on the inside.

Once the two goons were out of the path of the batmobile, I slammed the throttle to the firewall. The backup electric motor wailed in advance of the turbine, spinning the tires wildly. T-Don and the driver dove clear. As the wheels finally gripped the street, the turbine―finally getting up to speed and overriding the sprague-clutch―caused the batmobile to accelerate violently and careen into the SUV nearly capsizing it. I immediately pushed the transmission into reverse and pulled the batmobile out from under the mangled truck. As I did so, Ivy climbed from the wreckage and made a break for the front door of the nearest row-home.

Her resilience was both amazing and annoying.

"Oracle, get the batmobile away from here. Ivy's on foot."

"What about T-Don and the other goon?"

I opened the canopy and catapulted from the cockpit towards the building in pursuit of Ivy as fast as my legs would take me. "Nevermind them. They're out of ammunition. They're out of the fight. T-Don knows I'll come for him again. Let them run. Right now, Poison Ivy is my priority."

"Okay. I'll see if I can't influence the police to go after them, Batman. F-Y-I: the UAV's overhead and I don't see Ivy anywhere on the street or the alleys. Unless she's hiding, I think she's still in the building."

That was a safe bet, I could hear someone bounding up the stairs about four flights up. I assumed it was Ivy. She seemed keen on staying ahead of me. That was about to change, though. I was a master at closing distances.

I loaded a new cartridge into the grapnel gun and fired at the top of the stairs; it secured itself to an I-beam. Following a round-turn of my buckle with the cable, I secured the device to my belt and it yanked me from landing and sped me to the top floor.

I reached the top of the stairs just in time to see a blur of red hair go through the roof's maintenance hatch. I was off the rail and increasing to a full sprint for the opening hoping to get a handful of hair when she began firing at me; I disappeared back through the threshold. I took cover just inside the doorway thinking about how much hated guns. "Batman, Poison Ivy's on the roof."

"I'm aware." My tone oozed sarcasm.

"Well, unless she's suicidal or suddenly sprouts wings, you've got her cornered."

That was a plus. Poison Ivy had no goons for support, no innocents for shields, and nowhere to run. It was just me and her.

On the downside, however, I never counted how many total shots Ivy had fired so I was unsure of how many more rounds she had left―her gun was still a threat. I had already evaded enough gunfire this evening and I doubted that I had much more luck saved up to see me through another shootout. If nothing else, I could bank on the fact that my ability to survive gunfire had demoralized her and she was ready to talk. I needed to make sure.

I pulled a smoke grenade from my belt and tossed it through the door towards a chimney about ten feet to my left. The canister detonated and immediately filled a ten-by-ten area with white vapor. Ivy didn't lay into my diversion with her weapon. Perhaps, she really was in a talking mood.

Only one way to find out...

I draped my cape over my shoulders and readied a volley of shurikens. Standing to my full height, I eased through the doorway out onto the rooftop.

Poison Ivy was at the far corner, probably twenty yards away, with her gun trained on me. She was still in the green bathing suit but barefoot this time and wearing the fur coat she wore at the restaurant.

"Little cold for the beach," I growled making myself as imposing as possibly as I strode across the roof-top.

"Your parlor tricks don't fool me, Batman! I'll shoot you if you come any closer!" she screamed over the wind trying to sound threatening; smeared make-up and bathing suits notwithstanding.

"I'll make you eat that gun, Ivy."

She looked around frantically trying to find an escape route even though she knew this was the end of the line. She couldn't hide her fear this time. "Alright Bats, let's cut a deal."

I slowed my approach. "No, no _deal_. I don't do _deals_."

"Come on, Batman. I got something you want and you know it."

I stared a hole through her as I came to a halt about fifteen feet away.

"If you let me go, I tell you were Mr. Freiss' at. That's who you came for anyway."

"I have a better idea: You tell me where Freiss is and I won't toss you off this roof."

"Batman," Oracle's voice rattled inside my cowl, "the police are about two minutes away. You need to wrap it up and get scarce."

I could hear the sirens in the distance. There was only enough time for me to beat down Ivy or get the information on Freiss―not both. It was frustrating but Ivy couldn't get away from me forever as tonight's events displayed. So I had to accept that she was going to walk away from this―for now.

"You can't stop what I've started."

"You underestimate me."

"This is bigger than you...bigger than me. But you can stop Freiss. He's what you want anyway—who you came after. You can take me down if you want, though. Rest assured, if I go down...Freiss' location goes with me." She sounded suddenly indignant. "Think about the girl, Batman. Besides, the police are going to come up here and go after you too. Then what? You'll have Freiss at large―and I'll be out of the pen first thing in the morning. Got too many friends in high places."

For the second time in a just a couple of nights, Poison Ivy hid behind an innocent. She threw the thought of Madhavi at me as a shield. I hated cowards and criminals. Ivy was both. Despite that, taking her down right now wouldn't solve the _Lock_-problem. Plus, she'd be back on the street by sun-up. There was still a chance of saving Dr. Sanman's daughter from that madman Freiss.

"Poison Ivy becomes a _rat _when she's cornered. No honor among thieves?"

"I'm no thief! And, Freiss ain't a Bloodroot. I have no _loyalty_ to that sick bastard. He's the _sickest _person I've ever met, next to you. As far as I'm concerned you and him can kill each other."

I had Poison Ivy in check but it wasn't checkmate. Sooner or later, I'd catch up to her. And the longer she prolonged it, the more bones I intended to break.

"Batman, get moving. GCPD is flooding the block."

I discreetly returned the shurikens to their holsters. "Where is he?"

A sudden look of relief washed over her face, realizing that she just talked her way out of a one-sided fight. "He...," she hesitated, probably wondering if she could score a hit with her gun if I decided to rush her anyway. "We put him up in 1377 MacFion, one of our safe-houses in The Narrows."

Figures.

Poison Ivy continued, "It's a tenement on the west side of the island. Keep your head down, the residents will shoot you on sight." Her voice became smug again. "I'm sure you already know that I got that kinda pull."

I kept the glare on. She wasn't getting any credit from me. "This isn't over Ivy."

"I know it's not," she said dropping her gun and raising her hands in advance of the police.

The police came through the access door screaming _freeze_—ironic.

I disappeared over the side of the building.


	7. Chapter 7: Freeze

2:06 AM

The Narrows. The vanguard of Gotham maritime communication as it was known in eras past. Now a three-mile by two-mile plot of hell festering in the Gotham River separating midtown and downtown.

The Narrows made most slums and ghettoes look like amusement parks. It looked like a mausoleum, littered with condemned buildings, derelict cars, and hopeless inhabitants—the rotting carcass of a once prosperous neighborhood of a premier industrial city, now ruled by criminals with an iron fist. Historically notorious for the massacre of the Hawtaw Indians in the seventeenth century and as a mass grave site for the victims of an epidemic of yellow fever in the early nineteenth century, The Narrows had barely evolved since its prominence in the during the industrial revolution, with only select tenements having running water, electricity, and effective sanitation. Most city officials considered The Narrows to be a lost cause that was easier to disregard than attempt to reform. It was the shining symbol of the urban neglect that infected Gotham.

Making matters worse, the batmobile didn't navigate the Narrows' thoroughfares well. The roads weren't surveyed with automobiles in mind, much less one the size of the batmobile. In fact, most of the roads were in disrepair. That said: I made effective use of motorcycles on the streets or went on foot using the high-ground when transiting. The rooftops were optimum in this case, especially considering that I was in no mood to be shot at anymore this evening.

I raced from one roof to another, hurdling the small chasms between each building, breathing rhythmically trying to stave-off fatigue. My thigh ached and my side was on fire from the persistent stress of running and jumping. I could feel blood running down my ribcage again. I probably tore a suture in the previous melee. No matter, I had to push through the pain. I had to stay focused on Madhavi—an _innocent_ girl, no older than I was when my parents were murdered, caught in the machinations of a madman. If I didn't stay focused, she would end up more victimized than she had been already. That was an optimistic outlook. In reality, I'd be lucky to find Madhavi unharmed with as much time had elapsed since Freiss issued his demands. The clock was against me. Worst of all, I could have been running right into...

"...another trap, Batman," Oracle cautioned.

"I have to take that risk," I managed despite being practically out of breath.

"We're talking about a little girl's life here. If you just kick the door in, Freiss may hurt her."

"He already has."

"I mean physically."

"_What_ would you have me do?" I growled into the receiver. "The longer I take, the greater the chances of him killing her."

She went momentarily silent.

I jumped from the edge of a roof, landing two stories below onto the fire escape of another building and sprinted up the ladders.

"Maybe not. Without her, he has no bargaining chip."

"Freiss doesn't need one. Psychos don't bargain."

"Okay, then let's take a moment to consider our options. I'll get Nightwing to follow Ivy. Maybe there's something she hasn't told us."

"No."

"And, I'll have Robin meet you there. He can—"

"No."

Nightwing and Robin would only slow me down. They'd add more deliberation where action was needed, especially Robin. Nightwing was like me by most regards but Robin acted as what he coined _the voice of reason_. I didn't need to debate his or anyone else's reasoning. In fact, I was wasting time thinking about it.

"Would you just stop for a moment and listen? We need to gather more intelligence. Freiss may not even be holding Madhavi at the safe-house. She could be anywhere. At least wait for the UAV to finish refueling so that I can give you air-support."

"There's no time."

"What do you mean there's no time? Nightwing and Robin will respond immediately.

"No."

"Batman—"

I had arrived on top of the safe-house. "No."

"You're being unreasonable. If you get ambushed again, you may not make it out alive."

"I wasn't ambushed."

Oracle's patience ran out. "Call it whatever you want!"

So had mine. "Batman out." I closed the channel.

Ivy was just a gangster. Her sole purpose in life was monetary gain, not masterminding trap-after-trap in effort to kill me. I highly doubted that she had planned another one. She was deliberately selling Freiss out to save her own skin. She had probably planned to kill him when he had outlived his usefulness. Ivy was trying to tie-up a loose-end. That indicated to me that Freiss was here, holed up somewhere in this sarcophagus of a building. In the off-chance that he wasn't holding Madhavi, neither he nor I were going to leave until I knew her whereabouts.

I crept along the perimeter of the roof being sure to remain out of sight of Ivy's lookouts who were stationed about the block's rooftops. I scanned the building for an entrance and decided on a window on the south wall that flickered with the light of a TV. I anchored my grapnel to a chimney and went over the side, repelling head first to the window and peered in.

The room was occupied by two Bloodroot-gangsters—neither of which I knew by name or reputation. One sat on the couch engrossed in a televised sporting event and the other shot pool nearest the window, completely uninterested by the TV. The _pool-player_ was my first target; the _game-watcher_ was my second.

To cover the noise of my entry, I timed the opening of the window with the _pool-player_ striking the cue and slipped in, slithering up behind him. When he was distracted by the _game-watcher_, I seized the _pool-player_ by his throat. He struggled but I muffled his attempts to scream with my free hand.

The _game-watcher_ spit at the TV, "Ah, this is crap! Can you believe this guy? Where the hell did the damn league find this clown?"

I watched him carefully from behind a barely-conscious _pool-player_ as the _game-watcher_ reached for his ringing phone and keyed the text-message inbox. The _pool-player_ rattled until I had restricted enough blood-flow to his head and he went limp. I set him down easily onto the pool table and turned my attention to the _game-watcher_.

"Oh shit, Nando," he was addressing the _pool-player_, "I just got a message from T-Don. He said the Bat—" The _game-watcher_'s face went instantly white. He had turned to face his partner but instead found himself face-to-face with me and his comrade fast asleep on the pool table.

He darted for the door, knocking the coffee table over as he did so. I dove over the couch and got him around waist with both arms causing him to topple under the force and weight. I snaked around him in a series of grappling maneuvers until I was up on a knee with him prostrate beneath me and his foot and ankle in my hands. I took a deep breath and jerked his foot in a semi-circle until I heard his ankle break. I was sure the whole block heard him cry out.

I pinned him to the floor facedown with my knee and pulled a set of zip-ties from my utility-belt, binding his hands. I rolled the _game-watcher_ over and I pressed my forehead to his; the armor of my cowl was cold against his skin. "Scream again. I _dare_ you."

The game watcher bit down on his lip trying smother his sobs.

I took a moment and surveyed the room; I was looking for a sign of Freiss' whereabouts. The place was a rat-hole decorated by decaying furniture, rotting food, and an endless supply of cigarette butts. The atmosphere smelled rancid, probably due to non-functioning sewage lines. Criminals had no standards. They were little more than animals rolling in their own waste.

The _game-watcher_'s cellphone caught my eye.

I reopened the last text. It read: _Yo da Bat's coming. Screw Freiss. Leave his ass for da Bat. Get outta there!_

Freiss was here.

I hustled to the door of the apartment. It was wide open and when I looked out into the building proper, I noticed that the doors to every apartment were open as well. Pretty typical of a tenement with the sole purpose of the production and the storage of drugs, except that—judging by the lack of manpower—it was given over to Freiss to meet the needs of his operation. Poison Ivy left some goons to provide Freiss some muscle when needed it and to keep an eye on him for her.

The lighting in the building's small atrium was scarce, provided by a flickering hallway lamp, a broken skylight, and the glow from the room I had entered. It didn't take much effort to hug the shadows as I began to descend each level, checking every door between me and the ground floor.

The only closed doors were the last two that I came upon: one lead to the street and other to the basement. The basement door wasn't rotting like every other sliver of wood in this building, indicating that it had been recently replaced and there was a faint glow of an icy-blue light shining from beneath it. Oracle had mentioned that Freiss had had a laboratory in the basement of his residence prior to his arrest several years ago. Coincidence? Doubtful. Criminals didn't change much.

I needed to find out what was in the basement but I was reluctant to go charging down there blindly if I could help it. I didn't want to force Freiss' hand and cause him to kill Madhavi by causing him to panic. I contemplated cutting the power to the building. Darkness would either provide me the cover needed to sneak up on Freiss and take him out quickly or provide me with the cover needed to search the basement uninterrupted in his absence. Unfortunately, the layout of building indicated that the electrical elements were all in the basement. Therefore, cutting the power was out of the question. On to _Plan B_.

I pulled a fiber optic camera from the back of my utility-belt and pushed it under the door. Through the grainy feed I could see that the stairway, walled on both sides, descended along the extreme far-end of the faintly lit room. I didn't see a light switch along the staircase which meant that I was going to descend into the open view of the basement. And, if Freiss was down there, there would be no doubt that he'd see me come down. Not that I had any other options at this juncture. I had to manage the risk by prioritizing my movements when I reached the bottom of the stairs.

First, I'd sidle along the wall to the last step and use the fiber-optic camera to scan the room. Next, I'd locate the light-switches and turn them off—the sudden darkness would confuse Freiss for a moment. Third, I'd use the darkness to mask my movement and seek cover. Last, I'd take down Freiss and then search the basement for his data and—more importantly—Madhavi.

The doorknob was unlocked. I turned it slowly and pulled the door open just a hair pressing my ear to the opening. I could hear the chattering of caged animals and the labored buzzing of a refrigeration unit. The air had the acidic smell of a hospital combined with the animal musk of kennel. The door's hinges, aged as they were, groaned loudly as I pulled the door open just enough to fit through and then pulled it closed behind me. I descended the unlit stairway towards the bluish hue, hugging the wall to my right. The temperature dropped with each step. Once I reached the bottom I had to turn right to enter the basement.

When I reached the final step, I slid the camera's lens around the corner and spied the room on the screen of my tablet. The basement was a perfect rectangle—perhaps, fifty-feet by thirty-feet—with no exits leading out save a small window on the far side and a series of work stations, computers, industrial refrigeration equipment, and cages. Freiss was not among them. The light switches were, at the very least, reciprocal my position on the wall.

I slid around the corner and hit them. The passive, blue lighting faded to black, leaving the room only barely lit by the LEDs of the four computer towers that dotted the counters. I stuffed the camera back into its pouch and drew my night-vision from another, the room turned instantly green through its feed. To my left, Freiss had an entire kennel. Cages, stacked two and three high, were piled full with an assortment of dogs, cats, and hundreds of rats. All test subjects for Freiss' continued research into cryonics. The animals hardly acknowledged my presence, gazing through me with empty stares as I crept deeper into the basement. I was sure he kept them sedated in advance of further experimentation.

Three stainless-steel counters ran the length of the room: One in front of the kennel, one along the far-right wall, and one between the others. Another shorter counter ran the length of the wall opposite of me. Each had a set of drawers and cabinets for storage and a computer work-station connected in series to a server in the far right corner of the basement. To my right, in the near right corner, was an industrial freezer similar to those found in restaurants. In the far left corner was an object that reached nearly to the ceiling covered by dark canvas. I decided I would start at the right side of the basement at the freezer and work my way down and left, ending at the canvas.

As I approached the freezer, I noticed a laundry cart parked to its immediate left covered with tarp. Lifting the cover revealed partially thawed, discarded animal parts: legs, torsos, and organs. How was he disposing of the remains? An even better question: Where was he disposing of the remains? Answer: He wasn't disposing of the remains, Ivy's hired muscle were. And they were likely disposing of them in the same place that the Bloodroots disposed of the victims that eventually appeared on the missing-persons list. I was willing to bet that two vermin that I left a few floors up could shed some light on that prospect. I'd catalogue that for later.

I opened the heavy doors to the freezer; the air hissed with the change of pressure. On the inside, bodies—frozen stiff—covered in translucent plastic were stacked methodically in neat piles. Was Madhavi among these poor souls? My stomach turned. I pulled the plastic taut over each body and wiped away the condensation trying to find her. She wasn't in the freezer.

I closed the refrigerator and continued my search. I checked the drawers and cabinets of the center counter as I continued through the space. They were full of chemicals, tools, hardware, and publications; all neatly catalogued with a surgeon's precision and easily accessible as Freiss worked.

I stopped at the center workstation—which had two telescoping, hose-like nozzles to either side, each attached to a separate tank located beneath the counter—as I neared the end of the counter and the opposite side of the basement. In addition to finding Madhavi, I needed to acquire all of Freiss' data on the _Thawing/Recovery Theorem_ so that authorities could rescue the rest of the Sanman family. I'd just take it from the server.

I pulled a jump-drive from my utility-belt, plugged it into the server, and then went back to the center workstation to crack Freiss' log-in—it didn't take me long—Oracle could have done it faster, though. There was about 82GB of data, which would take me about twenty minutes to download. I initiated it and moved on.

I walked up to the canvas and regarded it for a moment. It was covering a large, box-shape and was attached by Velcro at the corners. Two rubber hoses from separate tanks, much like the ones accompanying each workstation, entered through the top of the canvas. At the base, heavy condensate rolled out from beneath the material like an eerie mist. I pulled my finger-light from my belt, stowed my nightvision, tore the Velcro open, and shined the light in. My mouth went instantly dry.

Like a statue sculpted by a deranged artist, Madhavi was flash-frozen in an unending moment of cold distress. Through a murky brown, gelatinous fluid housed in a giant glass vat I could see her suspended there with empty eyes and rictus that cried for help—to save her innocence—so that she didn't become a monster…like me. My moment was forever frozen in my mind: Two bleeding, lifeless gunshot victims left to rot in an alley. Her moment was simply forever frozen. A wave of guilt washed over me. I failed her. I let her down. I tried to shake it off with the knowledge that I had found Freiss' data but it didn't evaporate the guilt.

Perhaps, in these hard-drives I had found the means to save the entire Sanman family but it left me to wonder what Madhavi would be twenty years from now? Would she grow to become a monster like me—in a constant struggle for her soul? Would she embark on a fool's errand too, thinking that she could rid the world of a cancer that it was incurably infected by? Or would she grow to be pox on Gotham that I would have to end? Freiss' data or no, I had failed her like I failed Nightwing, and Oracle, and Robin, and Jason Todd before him. I pounded my fist against the glass. Then the door to the basement groaned. Someone was coming—Freiss was coming.

I disappeared from sight and so did the anxiety. I took cover behind the kennel-side counter and dowsed the light, stowing in its container. Anger caused my veins to run hot and a layer sweat began to collect between my skin and my armor.

Freiss came down the stairs at an even pace, carrying a grocery bag in either hand. The ease of his gait told me that the Bloodroots had not alerted him to my presence. He hit the light switches and the lights hummed into existence painting the room an artic blue again. He set the bags on the end of the center counter and began unloading their contents into the myriad drawers.

Freiss was cold-looking, pale, and bald. He was lean of stature, standing an easy six-feet-four-inches with a thick set of glasses that sat on his head, offsetting his chiseled, aged, and apathetic face. He wore an earth-toned button-down flannel shirt, with brown trousers and work boots. The man opened one of the cabinets and drew-out a white lab coat, which he pulled on, and grabbed a pair of rawhide heavy gloves and then he made his way between the kennel-side and the center counters towards the workstation near Madhavi's prison. I moved reciprocal of him, between the kennels and the kennel-side counter, remaining out of his field of view. He introduced a faint cologne and cigarette smell to the atmosphere as we passed each other and proceeded to opposite ends of the basement.

Freiss stopped at a workstation near Madhavi and resumed his work, alternatingly shuffling through several notebooks that he pulled from a drawer and typing on the computer. He hadn't noticed the download that I had initiated at one of the other client computers. Once I was sure that he was stationary, I crept out from my hiding spot and slithered towards him. When I came within few yards, I rose ominously.

Freiss noticed my materializing silhouette in the reflection of the brush-finished back of the far-side counter but didn't acknowledge me until he saw my reflection in the monitor of the computer. He did a double-take and then whipped around. After the initial start, however, he went cold; seemingly unaffected by my presence as we regarded one another. That wasn't normal. I knew of only a few _criminals_ that didn't fear me. They were of the more dangerous breed. I decided to let Freiss make the first move.

"I thought you were just a story that the locals perpetuated out of sheer boredom." His accent was heavy. "But apparently the reports are true."

My stare was all ice despite the fire burning in my chest.

Freiss continued, "What did you hope to accomplish by coming here dressed as such? To save the child, perhaps, hm? There's nothing you can do, you won't stop me."

_Give up, Freiss_, popped into my mind but I didn't say it. He wouldn't humor me, anyway.

"You will not keep her from me," he said matter-of-factly. "They've kept her from me this long but that's going to end. Do you hear me?"

I didn't reply. I just stood there and waited for him to make a move.

"Do you hear me?" His voice became heavy. "Do you? She is my wife and she will not be without me." The veins in his face were becoming visible. "She will never be without me! I would see her dead before I let you keep her from me! You will not keep my wife from me!"

Freiss snatched the nozzles from the workstations and depressed their actuators spraying liquid in an arc. I retreated underneath my cape like a turtle into its shell. The first stream made contact, then the second. Once the two chemicals mixed, they flash-froze and so did everything the mixture touched. It overrode my armor's insulation, caused the armor plates to rattle with the extreme temperature change, and sapped the heat from my body causing my muscles to seize. The cooling effect was so intense that it confused my senses: I didn't know if I was freezing or burning.

My body was shutting down. If I didn't do something, I was going to freeze to death. I had to focus to resist the urge to collapse into the fetal position as a last ditch effort to retain body heat and to maintain higher brain function. My instincts told me to stand and escape. Doing so would take me out from the little protection my cape provided and directly into the stream of the refrigerant. I therefore willed myself not to stand but instead remain beneath my cape and arm a smoke grenade.

There was a _pop_ as the small charge of the grenade detonated and a pressurized _cough_ followed by a steady _hiss_ as smoke billowed out from beneath the cape in a flapping motion. In the span of a couple seconds, the smoke had covered an area of about ten-feet around me, enabling a retreat beyond the range of the hoses. Once clear, I stood to my feet; portions of my flash-frozen cape fell away in pieces.

_Boom_! My ears rang. That was a shotgun. Using the smoke to cover my retreat—and despite the cold-induced lethargy—I sprinted towards the stairs, hitting the lights as I passed them, and bounded up to the atrium, three steps at a time. Freiss fired twice more into the dark and the smoke. I was well clear by that time.

I stood in the doorway until sensation began to return to my extremities. The meager light of the atrium casted a long shadow of a bat across the floor of the basement at the bottom of the steps. I knew Freiss could see it; the smoke would have dispersed by now. His mind had to be racing, knowing that I was right at the top the stairs, waiting for him. He was probably trying to figure out how he was going to take me down since the refrigerant hadn't stopped me. He was hoping that the shotgun could end me, hoping that the stories weren't true that the Batman was bulletproof. There was only one way out of that basement and no one was coming to his aid. He'd have no choice but to search for the truth himself.

I predicted that the first thing Freiss was going to do once he turned the corner at the bottom of the steps was pull the trigger. I wasn't going to make myself a target. He'd have to come get me. And, this time I'd draw him into _my_ trap.

I stepped out of the doorway—Freiss saw my shadow dematerialize—and I raced across the atrium to the open door of the first apartment, ditching my cape in front—it was full of holes and useless at this point from all the damage—to act as a lure. I then stuffed a small-yield explosive charge into the space between the open door and the frame and I disappeared into the shadows opposite and just inside. The explosive didn't have the power to seriously injure Freiss nor do extensive structural damage but it was sure to stun him long enough to beat him into a coma.

I heard Freiss reach the top of the stairs, he dragged his boots and breathed heavy as he lumbered about. Freiss stopped after several paces, probably looking for some clue that would betray my whereabouts. Then I heard him take a deep breath and hold it; he saw the cape lying at the foot of the doorway, beckoning him, '_catch me if can_'.

The shotgun's wrathful scream reverberated through the building as did Freiss' voice, "Batman, I am here! Come out and face me!" He fired again. "You think you can keep me from my wife? No one can stop me! Not the police or you! Not even death can keep her from me! And, mark my words when I say I will kill everyone—man, woman, and child—in Gotham until I have my wife again! The Sanman's are only the beginning! Do you hear me?"

His singular-purposed pace resumed as he headed for the booby-trapped doorway. I pressed closer to the wall and readied myself. I couldn't take any chances, I needed to be surgical when I struck. My armor would not sustain a gunshot at pointblank range, especially not from a shotgun; it'd be instantly lethal.

Freiss was just outside and fired randomly through the doorway. "Batman!" he demanded as he crossed the threshold.

I hit the detonator. The charge blew up at shoulder-height setting the door off its hinges. Freiss' body shuddered as the shockwave hit him and he was temporarily blinded by the debris. In that same instant, I emerged from the shadows, took hold of the barrel, and yanked it from his hands pulling him the rest of the way through the door.

Freiss stumbled across the room before regaining his balance against a table laden with tools—some of which fell to the rotting floor as he made impact. I set upon him with the shotgun, swinging it like a baseball bat and striking him cleanly in the cheek with the butt. He crumbled to the floor dripping blood from the avulsion. Then, I slammed the weapon against my thigh and broke into two useless pieces at the breach and slung them to the far side of the apartment.

I hoisted Freiss to his feet by his shirt, gritted my teeth, and hit him with everything I had. His head quaked from the impact, his blood spattered onto my face. I vented my anger, frustration, and anguish on Freiss, mauling him until I found some measure of quiet and satisfaction. A fist. A knee. Another fist, followed by an elbow. He tried to retaliate at one point. I intercepted his arm in mid-flight, yanked his shoulder from its socket, and then broke the arm at the humerus for good measure. Then I hit him in the face again.

All that didn't fill the void that I felt for Madhavi but I was determined to take revenge for her—and for every innocent that had ever been wronged in the hell that is Gotham City. I lifted Freiss off the ground and used his body as a sledge hammer to smash the table into pieces. The rest of the tools crashed to the floor.

Freiss, stubborn as he was, tried to sit up, so I dropped onto his chest with my knee. He coughed painfully as I forced the air from his lungs. I mauled his face with my fist again and again and again, driving his head into the floor. He tried to stop the initial strikes but as he slid closer and closer towards unconsciousness he became less and less interested with defending himself. I continued bludgeoning his face and more blood spattered with each strike. My hands went numb eventually urging me to stop.

Freiss laid there motionless. He was subdued. It was over.

I leaned back on my haunches and took a moment to gather myself, breathing through my nose to counter the effects of the adrenaline. I tried to subdue the angst and the hatred so that I could continue my crusade, not be consumed by it.

Then, Freiss began to stir.

I looked down at his bloodied and swollen face. His eyes rolled back and he was beginning to convulse, frothing at the mouth. I suddenly realized the point where my knee impacted his chest…

No. No. This couldn't be happening. He was going into cardiac arrest!

I pulled a shuriken from my belt and used one of its knife-edges to cut his shirt open. I then wiped the froth from his face and hovered over his mouth with my cheek to verify that he was breathing. He was, albeit labored and shallow.

I drew the miniature defibrillator from my belt and, still hunched over Freiss, I began assembling it. The adrenaline made it extremely difficult; my hands were shaking. Freiss stopped seizing and suddenly I felt an impact against my cowl and my vision went instantly white. I was instantly numb to the passage of time. It was as if I was floating and all I could hear were wedding bells. Nonstop wedding bells, ringing endlessly. I think I heard my mother's voice calling my name, _Batman._ I hadn't heard my mother's voice in what seemed like a lifetime.

My vision came back as instantly as it left. Colors of gray and brown and red and…Freiss scowling at me with a hammer in his hand; a hammer that he thought was going to end this fiasco.

Freiss duped me. He tried to use my compassion against me by faking a heart attack. He just hadn't anticipated how heavily my cowl was armored. Criminals swore I wore it just for the looks.

Anger swelled in my in chest.

I wanted to _end_ Freiss.

I gripped his wrist in a vice and squeezed until his knuckles turned white and the hammer fell to the floor. With my other hand I grabbed hold of throat and squeezed until I knew that I was not only restricting his airway but also the blood flow through his carotid and jugular. My anger vented as snarls through gritted teeth. I hated criminals. They were animals that prey on the weak and the just. They found satisfaction in the pain and suffering they caused and killing empowered them.

Freiss finally showed me what I was looking for. The thing I needed to really know that he was beaten: Fear. I could see it in his eyes. That passionate look that begged me not to take his life and that look that didn't know if I was going to be merciful. That looked that validated the existence of the Batman. That look that ended this drama. I released his neck and stood, walking to the door. Freiss gasped for air, no doubt feeling lucky to be alive. Just because he was willing to take a life, didn't mean that he didn't fear death.

I hated criminals and everything they stood for…but not enough to kill them. I was many things, but a murderer was not one of them. He didn't know that, though. That's what I used to break him. I wasn't above using criminals' scare-tactics against them.

I opened the Bluetooth channel. "Oracle?"

"You better have good news, Batman. I'm really fed up with you hanging up on me."

"Patch me through to Commissioner Gordon."

"You're really messing with my Zen."

I was in no mood. "Oracle."

She wasn't either. "Standby."

There was a moment of static and then I heard Jim's voice, "Gordon."

"Commissioner, I'm at 1377 MacFion in the Narrows—"

"Batman?" He sounded surprised.

"I've subdued Victor Freiss and found the Sanman girl. It's over."

"Thank god. I'm sending units now. Is the girl okay?"

"I have Freiss' data. The Sanman family will be okay."

"That's great, Batman, but the girl…is she okay?"

Regret pooled in my stomach as I thought of her drifting away in everlasting sleep, suspended there in that icy coffin. "She's…here. Batman out."

I bound Freiss to a stanchion for the police. I was glad that this charade was finally over but I was wholly unsatisfied. I still had so much work to do. Poison Ivy still needed to be brought down, I had Police Captain that needed to have his resignation forced, and the Sanman family had to be thawed. The first two were fairly simple. It was the latter that posed a problem. My gut told me that there were authorities that would make the data disappear if I turned it over to law-enforcement. Ivy did, after all, have tremendous pull inside the GCPD. So I needed to get the data to someone else that I could trust to see that Madhavi and her family found salvation―I'd handle the retribution. This time, I wouldn't fail her.

I left the safehouse the same way I came in and disappeared into the darkness of the City of Shadows.


	8. Chapter 8: Best Served Cold

/GOTHAM GAZETTE/

BEST SERVED COLD...

By Vicki Vale

First, allow me to start by highlighting that this marks the five-hundredth column that I've written for the Gotham Gazette. You're probably wondering why that's important to you. It wasn't as if the average Gothamite couldn't have gone along with their day had I not quantified the number pieces I've written for Gotham's historic newspaper—which I'm honored to do, by-the-by. It's just that I've noticed a common trend with all my columns—rather, with every column written in Gotham and its titanic metropolitan area: Duty.

Or a lack thereof…

All of my columns are painted with or deliberately speak-out on the Batman. Is he real or just a figment of the Gotham collective imagination? Is he a human masquerading as something terrible or is he something terrible masquerading as something vaguely human? Who does he work for? The police? The National Guard? Is he an agent of some federal initiative? Or he is an agent of something far older and far more arcane. And, finally, whose story should we believe? There are _so_ many. In fact, last night reports came in following an explosion of a brownstone in Reatton, owned by none other than Gotham's first lady Pamela Isley, claiming that a giant bat was seen flying down the ever-busy Cook Avenue and rendezvoused with the _batmobile_ before it jumped an entire intersection. This entire display eventually climaxed just north of the Narrows on Harbor Drive with machine gun fire, a demolished Chevrolet Suburban, the _batmobile_ fleeing the scene, and Isley cornered on a roof in bare feet and a bathing suit. Oh, and don't let me forget about the numerous cellphone videos (sporting terrible quality) that surfaced on the internet of Batman flying between the buildings in this spectacular display, which have rated over 500,000 views in just a matter of twenty-four hours.

'Miss Vale, what is your point?' you're probably asking. Well, this entire city has sat idly by and watched the entire metropolitan area decay under the iron-rule of the gangs, organized crime, and super-criminals. And, in our fear of retribution, me included, have morally, ethically, verbally, and physically attacked the Batman and his confederates…the only people (if I can call them that) who lead a crusade to return the city to the rule-of-law. I agree that everyone in Gotham fears the Batman. He's elemental, uncompromising, and violent. But has the Batman ever attacked Sally, Ben, or Tim walking home from the grocery store? No. He crashes into the penthouses of criminals and fills the emergency rooms with gangsters, murderers, and rapists.

My point is this: I woke up this morning and found a manila folder on my bedside table. In the folder were a flashdrive and a note that read:

_Freiss' Thaw Process Theorem and data. All 82GB of it. I'm giving this to you because I'm afraid there are those in the legal system that will see that this data never goes public and will block the Sanman Family from the justice they deserve. Do your duty to the people of Gotham. It's always best served cold…_

I sat and mulled it over all morning. To be honest, it caused me a tremendous amount anxiety ('It' meaning the concept of duty…not that a giant bat sneaking into my residence without my knowing doesn't) because I knew that it was my duty as a journalist to give this data to the people but I was terrified of the repercussions—the retribution. Criminals _do_ believe that vengeance is best served cold after all and will seek to silence anyone opposing them. But, after a long look in the mirror, I came to this realization: Batman is in a one-man war against something we should all be fighting against. And when he said, "It's always best served cold…" he was not referring to revenge. He was referring to justice. Justice is best served cold; meaning that no one is above it, not you, not me, not Batman, and definitely not the criminal element. So from this point on, I'm going to stand for the people and the rule-of-law and not live in fear of retribution and death even if they come for me. I have a duty to the people of Gotham and a duty to the rule-of-law and I violate that duty every time I turn a blind eye. Batman made me realize that. Gotham doesn't have to be nicknamed the City of Shadows forever—we can change that. We just need to have the civil courage.

I suppose this is where I say, "Thank you, Batman," but I'm unsure as to whether he reads the news. Either way, we and the Sanman Family are in his debt. Now, I have to go respond to my editor, who's probably being assaulted by the mayor's office, for me posting this column in support of the Batman. Hopefully, I get to keep my job.

END


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